If a man has to say trust me, Gogu conveyed, it’s a sure sign you cannot. Trust him, that is. Trust is a thing you know without words.
Perhaps this is what the stories meant when they called somebody heartsick. Your heart and your stomach and your whole insides felt hollow and empty and aching.
Don’t you long for something different to happen, something so exciting and new it carries you along with it like a great tide, something that lets your life blaze and burn so the whole world can see it?
I like the truth, even when it does trouble me.
This is a long goodbye, yet not time enough. I have no aptitude for this. I cannot learn this. I would hold on, and hold on, until my hands clutch at emptiness.
If a man truly loves, he gives no heed to what others may think. His heart has no room for that, for it is filled to the brim with the unutterable truth of his feelings.
There is no good or evil, save in the way you see the world. There is no dark or light save in your own.
There’s a light shining in him, moving him forward: the light of freedom. That’s what draws all of us to follow, to take risks, to keep on fighting when we see our comrades fall beside us. But there’s no light without shadow.
Because, when I was away, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Part of me said, yes, it was the right thing to do, for your sake; part of me recognized the kind of man I am, the kind of work I do, the utter impossibility of it. But the other part of me... I felt your absence like a wound.
Tales within tales. Dreams within dreams. Pattern on pattern and path beyond path. For such short-lived folks, the human kind seem determined to make things as complicated as possible for themselves.
The end of the story is of your making, nobody else’s. You can do with it as you choose. There are as many paths open to your hero as branches on a great tree. They are wonderful and terrible, and plain and twisted. They touch and part and intermingle, and you can follow them whatever way you will.