“So with curious eyes and sick surmiseWe watched him day by day,And wondered if each one of usWould end the self-same way,For none can tell to what red HellHis sightless soul may stray.”

“But he was sick of this charade. Sick of watching people lose a little more of their humanity each day, and sick to death of seeing people tortured in the name of God. What had happened to these people?”

“None of my friends knows that most of the sick days I've taken from work are not sick days, but Austen days.”

“Ordinary people who live their lives peacefully, whose days gently resemble each other, may happen one day to stop and wonder why and what for do they do the things they do and have been doing for so many years?”

“I wonder,” he said, “whether the stars are set alight in heaven so that one day each one of us may find his own again...”

“When your soul and minehave left our bodies and we areburried alongside each other,a Potter may one day mouldthe dust of both of usinto the same clay.”