“When men and women punish each other for truth telling, we reinforce the notion that lies are better. To be loving we willingly hear the other’s truth, and most important, we affirm the value of truth telling. Lies may make people feel better, but they do not help them to know love.”
“Let me tell ya. You gotta pay attention to signs. When life reaches out with a moment like this it’s a sin if you don’t reach back... I’m telling you.”
“The truth was I craved our exchanges and I calmed in his mere presence, and there wasn’t anything I could do to change that. Dominic and I were blood bonded - looming apocalypse or not.”
“You told the truth to the mayor on Assignment Day. I didn’t want to believe it, but then came the long blackout, and I knew-I knew things were as bad as you said.”
“Doon Harrow and Lina Mayfleet – Wanted for spreading vicious rumors – If you see them, report to mayor’s chief guard. Believe nothing they say. Reward.”
“I would have liked to tell Mr. Palmer just how old and feeble that joke is, but instead I said, ‘Oh, of course, sir! How clever of you’ because I had learned a thing or two during my time at the Glenmore. About when to tell the truth and when not to.”
“I bet not one of them will tell you what cancer smells like. I can, though. It stinks. Like meat gone bad and dirty clothes and bog water all mixed together. Why doesn’t anyone tell you that?”
Basically the story revolves around Lucy (aka the girl who cried wolf), who tells her family about the wolves lurking behind the wallpapers. Her relatives however dismissed her fears as a product of her overactive imagination, and they are actually too engrossed into their own worlds to deal with Lucy: her mother (like any mother) is a personification of domestic order, her oblivious father plays tuba, and her annoying brother plays video games.
“You have grown abominably lazy, you like gossip, and waste time on frivolous things, you are contented to be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and respected by wise ones.”
“Come,” said Caderousse, wiping his large knife on his apron, “if I did not like you, do you think I should endure the wretched life you lead me? Think for a moment. You have your servant’s clothes on—you therefore keep a servant; I have none, and am obliged to prepare my own meals. You abuse my cookery because you dine at the table d’hôte of the Hôtel des Princes, or the Café de Paris. Well, I too could keep a servant; I too could have a tilbury; I too could dine where I like; but why do I not? Because I would not annoy my little Benedetto. Come, just acknowledge that I could, eh?”