“My ladsh," said Swithin, "are the besht there ish. It'sh not their fault they're up againsht better people.”

“My fault? How the hell is this"--I waved my arm across the table-- my fault?""You know we don't believe in hell, so stop using that word in our presence," Bridie said."Fine. How in fucked-up fairyland is this my fault?”

“Okay, so two people who are in love - they are who they are when they're apart, but when they're together, the fact that they're in love is supposed to make them better. Love and relationships are supposed to make people better.”

“North-ish." A pause, and then: "Is that Terra for I'm lost-ish?”

“I have a thing about losers. Flaws in oneself open you up to others with flaws. Not that Dostoyevsky's characters don't generate phatos, but they're flawed in ways that don't come across as faults. And while I'm on the subject, Tolstoy's characters' faults are so epic and out of scale, they're as static as backdrops.”

“The people I see from my window. In the huts, in the distance. They're all dressed the same.' 'Ah, those people,' said Father, nodding his head and smiling slightly. 'Those people...well, they're not people at all, Bruno.' Bruno frowned. 'They're not?' he asked, unsure what Father meant by that.”