“Maybe there’s more we all could have done, but we just have to let the guilt remind us to do better next time.”

Lies require commitment.

What did you do, memorize a map of the city for fun?” says Christina. “Yes,” says Will, looking puzzled. “Didn’t you?

My name is Four,” I say. “Call me ‘Stiff’ again and you and I will have a problem.

Human reason can excuse any evil; that is why it’s so important that we don’t rely on it.

Looking him in the eye is a challenge. It’s my choice.

It reminds me that no embrace will ever feel the same again, because no one will ever be like her again, because she’s gone. She’s gone, and crying feels so useless, so stupid, but it’s all I can do.

Cruelty does not make a person dishonest, the same way bravery does not make a person kind.

There is a difference between admitting and confessing. Admitting involves softening, making excuses for things that cannot be excused; confessing just names the crimes at its full severity.

We both have war inside us. Sometimes it keeps us alive. Sometimes it threatens to destroy us.

You believe you know them, that you understand them, but their motives are always hidden from you, buried in their own hearts. You will never know them, but sometimes you decide to trust them.

The truth is… you are hurting me. Not on purpose, I know that. But I love you and every second that you don´t love me back…it hurts.

Knowledge is power. Power to do evil…or power to do good. Power itself is not evil. So knowledge itself is not evil.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Even closer, so we would be breathng the same air- if I could remember to breathe. ‘No, Tris,’ he says. A more serious look replaces his smile as he adds, ‘You look tough as nails.

I keep finding myself stifled by the company of others and then crippled by loneliness when I leave them.

I don’t want to stop you. I want you to stop yourself.

I’ll say it one last time: Be brave.

The looks, the stares, the giggles . . . I wanted to show everybody that I could do better and also that I could read.

I want – I want – I want – was all that she could think about – but just what this real want was she did not know.

If a man could but be turned about, he would see at once God and himself and the All.

Madonna wasn’t an acrobat or anything, but the sex was good. I could tell she liked it.

She was one of those Southerners who knew from an early age that the South could never be more for them than a fragrant prison, administered by a collective of loving but treacherous relatives.

The music left only this bad hurt in her, and a blankness. She could not remember any of the symphony, not even the last few notes. She tried to remember, but no sound at all came to her. Now that it was over there was only her heart like a rabbit and this terrible hurt.

I could bear the memory, but I could not bear the music that made the memory such a killing thing.

The safe places could only be visited; they could only grant a momentary intuition of sanctuary. The moment always came when we had to return to our real life to face the wounds and grief indigenous to our homr by the river.