“After reaching Oruro, I was surprised to learn how many Mormons were living here. Or maybe they just stood out. They could probably be spotted from a high-flying jet, so conspicuous were they in their brown suits, wide ties, briefcases full of evangelical props, and close-cropped blond hair. I spent an hour and a half in the company of two of them, a pair of earnest, sincere, and intensely boring young men. While one with great solemnity sought to convert me, the other standing a foot before my face, silently held a booklet with illustrations to accompany the lecture and periodically flipped the pages for my benefit. It was a hard-earned tea.”

“We stood there for a full half hour, like so many scarecrows, while they jeered at us from a distance, and one or two of us were shot down.”

“...During my first few hours in Loja, I had good fortune to run into two young Mormon missionaries who let me sleep one night in their room and three further nights at their temple. My four days in Loja were somber ones, however, not so much because of the Mormons, who didn't try to convert me (at least not very strenuously), but because of the constant rain.”

“I couldn’t figure out if it was fate or faith that had brought me there. How funny those two words sounded when paired together. One was the inevitable, something I could not change in my life, while the other was the hope and belief that I could. These two words were enemies of each other, and one of them was down right dangerous for a slave to have anywhere near his mind.”

“Whenever I think of the man I was in those days, cutting across the nat-cropped grass of the campus, burdened down by the weight of the books in which I sought the consolation of other men's grief, and aburdened futher by the large weight of my own bitterness, the whole vision seems a nightmare. There were girls all about me, so near and yet so out of reach, a pastel nightmare of honey-blond, pink-lipped, golden-legged, lemon-sweatered girls”

“Yeah, well, you clearly also couldn't be bothered to call me and tell me you were shacking up with some dyed-blond wanna-be goth you probably met at Pandemonium. After I spent the past three days wondering if you were dead.""I was not shacking up," Clary said, glad of the darkness as the blood rushed to her face."And my hair is naturally blond," said Jace. "Just for the record."Simon, Clary, and Jace, pg. 115”