she hated the streak of cruelty she knew in him, the arrogance, the frequent insensitivity. And he was a fool where judgment of character was concerned. He could no more read a woman’s wiles than a dog could read Spanish! He was consistently attracted to the very last sort of woman who could ever make him happy.
Anger at injustice has righted more wrongs than most other things, and it is one of the great creative forces in a civilized society.
There was no reason why not.
There were parts of Monk she admired greatly: his courage; his strength of will; his intelligence; his loyalty to his beliefs; his passion for justice; his ability to face almost any kind of truth, no matter how dreadful; and the fact that he was never, ever, a hypocrite.
It was his own soul he was exploring, the one territory from which there was no escape, the one enemy which must always be faced, sooner or later, more certain than anything else in life or death.
He had been too clever to be easy friends with other boys, who were afraid of his intelligence and lashed out at him the only way they knew how, with fists and boots. Even sitting here by his own fire, Tellman could feel the sweat of fear in his body, and then the chill, as he remembered standing facing them in the street, knowing what was coming.
One person’s ideals sometimes endanger someone else’s privileges.
She had never been beautiful- she had known that from the start- but she would like to have been loved, above all things. She would have to settle for being liked, perhaps for being trusted, respected. Best of all would have been to have had the courage to stand up for herself and fight for what she believed in.
After all, the God she believed in cared for every soul, and what happened to the body left behind mattered not at all.