“Who is Nando?" Cesare asked. "Rocco's son," I replied. "A child." Make no mistake, Cesare was a selfish and ruthless man. The entire course of his life proves this. But for all that, he could on ocassion actually be a man - and by that I do not mean that he possessed scrotum and penis, as does the rudest hog rooting in a sty. He had an instinct to care for those weaker than himself, especially children, whom he liked and valued far more than he did most adults. But just then he was very young and lacking in the thin - in Cesare's case, extremely thin - veneer of civilization that most men manage to acquire as they pass through life. That being the case, he gave voice to what was, in all honesty, my own instinctive response to Rocco's news. "Merda." I could not have put it better.”

“He simply had to trust the dogs. On the hunt, man and dogs were always a team.With Jesse, perhaps this was more true than with most. Most men, knowing themselves to be a lot smarter than the dogs, often overruled their judgment. Jesse, not thinking himself much smarter than anything, did not. He often relied upon his own instincts. Hetherefore had more respect for instinct, perhaps, than a man who normally relied upon intellect. The mind of the dog was in many ways as simple and uncomplicated as Jesse's own. He was taught to memorize actions in places he couldn't reason, andobey in situations that he did not understand. When he did understand he followed his instinct. His instincts assured him that as hunter, the dog was at least the equal of man. And for scenting and tracking, the dog was superior.”

“He was a handsome man, not in the way of mercurial Cesare or the false angel, Morozzi, but with a calm steadiness that sat well upon him and shown in everything he did. The creations he drew from fire and air were possessed of great delicacy, but I was coming to realize that the man himself was as an oak, unshakable in the greatest storm.”

“...but most of all he liked to listen to stories of real life. He smiled gleefully as he listened to such stories, putting in words and asking questions, all aiming at bringing out clearly the moral beauty of the action of which he was told. Attachments, friendships, love, as Pierre understood them, Karataev had none, but he loved and lived on affectionate terms with every creature with whom he was thrown in life, and especially so with man- not with any particular man, but with the men that happened to be before his eyes.But his life, as he looked at it, had no meaning as a separate life. It only had meaning as part of a whole, of which he was at all times conscious.”

“Though he may have been more tolerant than most of his brethren, being addressed without deference by a woman of no particular lineage was more than the priest could bear. A tic sprang to life in his right eye. Glaring, he turned away from me and addressed himself pointedly to Casare. "Signore, we are about to perform the final sacraments for our late Holy Father! Surely you can understand that your presence here and that of your-" He paused, no doubt condsiering what he would like to call me. Some sense of self-preservation must have won out as he said only, "-companion is not appropriate?"Cesare had many skills- I have alluded to several of them - but he was utterly lacking in even the rudiments of tact. Indeed, his notion of diplomacy revolved around the conviction that the best route to peace lies in the grinding of one's enemies into the ground so thoroughly that the very fact of their ever having existed will be forgotten upon the wind.But he was in Saint Peter's Basilica, next to Jerusalem the holiest place in all Christendom. And if he caused any real problems, he would have no end of trouble from his father.Accordingly, Cesare gritted his teeth and said, "Don't fuck with me, priest. Just show us how to get into the garret.”

“All the books were beginning to turn against me. Indeed, I must have been blind as a bat not to have seen it long before, the ludicrous contradiction between my theory of life and my actual experiences as a reader. George MacDonald had done more to me than any other writer; of course it was a pity that he had that bee in his bonnet about Christianity. He was good in spite of it. Chesterton has more sense than all the other moderns put together; bating, of course, his Christianity. Johnson was one of the few authors whom I felt I could trust utterly; curiously enough, he had the same kink. Spenser and Milton by a strange coincidence had it too. Even among ancient authors the same paradox was to be found. The most religious (Plato, Aeschylus, Virgil) were clearly those on whom I could really feed. On the other hand, those writers who did not suffer from religion and with whom in theory my sympathy ought to have been complete -- Shaw and Wells and Mill and Gibbon and Voltaire -- all seemed a little thin; what as boys we called "tinny". It wasn't that I didn't like them. They were all (especially Gibbon) entertaining; but hardly more. There seemed to be no depth in them. They were too simple. The roughness and density of life did not appear in their books.”