“These things you did were like prayers; you did them and you hoped they would save you. And for the most part they did. Or something did; you could tell by the fact that you were still alive.”

“Where were you, he asked her, when I needed you the most? Did you ever hold me in your arms? Did you feed me? Did you ever look for me? Did you wonder where I might be?”

“Who's the real you? The person who did something awful, or the one who's horrified by the awful thing you did? Is one part of you allowed to forgive the other?”

“Among the problems with shame was that it in fact did not make you shorter or quieter or less visible. You just felt like you were.”

“Where did you learn to do that so well?
Where did you learn to do that so well?
I guess that would be like kiss and tell.
If it's a secret, why did you show me?”

“I know that big people don't like questions from children. They can ask all the questions they like, How's school? Are you a good boy? Did you say your prayers? but if you ask them did they say their prayers you might be hit on the head.”

“When you had to do something, you had to do it. And eventually, if you were lucky, you did it well.”

“In the end
these things matter most:
How well did you love?
How fully did you live?
How deeply did you let go?”

“Somebody said: "Well, you did that to make us like you." No, no. It's not a reason you do things, to be liked. It's the right thing to do, to save lives.”

“Eskimo: "If I did not know about God and sin, would I go to hell?" Priest: "No, not if you did not know." Eskimo: "Then why did you tell me?”