The tragedy of the man not set up for tragedy—that is every man's tragedy.

It happened. It was awful. You aren't perfect. That's all there is. Don't confuse your grief with guilt."We stay in the silence and the loneliness of the otherwise empty dormitory for a few more minutes, and I try to let her words work themselves into me.

He must have stood there for a long time, making a list of all the terrible things he had done—almost killinng me was one of those thingss—and another list of all the good, heroic, brave things he had not done, and then decided that he was tired. Tired, not just of living, but of existing. Tired of being Al.

Sometimes I forget that I can hurt you. That you are capable of being hurt

If someone offers you an opportunity to get closer to your enemy, you always take it. I know that without having learned it from anyone.

Stupid. Why do people want to pretendthat death is sleep? It isn’t. It isn’t

It had always been Roth; from the moment he swaggered into that d- alley, where I'd been unsuccessfully fighting off a demon, it had been him for me. Maybe I'd been too blind to see that after he returned from the pits. Maybe I had been too angry with him after the way he initially acted.

But I wasn't done. Staring into eyes that were as bright and beautiful than any tawny jewel, I said what I had never said before. And I said it with every ounce in my being behind it. "I love you, Roth." My voice shook with emotion."I'm in love with you.

You love Roth," he continued for me."You're in love with him." My eyes met his bright blue ones."Yes," I whispered, my lower lip trembling."It's him. It's always been him.

The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It's getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That's how we know we're alive: we're wrong.