никто из Семьи не может и никогда не сможет сочетаться ни с кем из людей, населяющих этот огромный мир

– Но это же прощание с летом! – подумала Сеси. – Возвращение лета перед приходом зимы.
– Лето, – сказала Энн. – Прощание.
– Самое время потанцевать, – подумала Сеси.
– …танцевать, – пробормотала Энн.

– Да, – вздохнула Сеси, – я принадлежу к странной семье, которая летает по ночам, подобно стае черных воздушных змеев. Я могу жить в чем угодно – в камешке, в крокусе, в богомоле...Но если я не такая, как все, и не могу любить сама, подумала Сеси, я могу любить через кого-нибудь другого!

И только тогда появилась царственная Ануба.
Хлопнула парадная дверь.
И она вошла, облаченная в тончайшее высокомерие, бесшумнее бесшумнейших лимузинов, до которых еще века, благородная странница, чьи странствия продлились три тысячи лет

– Завтра наступает Великая Ночь, бабушка! Я ждал ее всю жизнь. Завтра Семья, наша Семья, слетится сюда со всех концов мира! Расскажи мне, бабушка, как все это началось, как был построен этот дом, откуда мы сюда пришли, а еще…

Ah, yes, Time is a burden. We know too much, we remember too much. We have indeed lived too long. The best thing to do, Timothy, in your new wisdom is to live your life to the fullest, enjoy every moment, and lay yourself down, many years from now, happily realizing that you’ve filled every moment, every hour, every year of your life and that you are much loved by the Family.

“Would you not admit, child, that forty billion deaths are a great wisdom, and those forty billion who shelve under the earth are a great gift to the living so that they might live?”
“I guess.”
“Do not guess, child. Know. I will teach, and that knowledge, important to living because only death can set the world free to be born again—that is your sweet burden. And tonight is the night when your task begins. Now!”

“But what have we done?”
“Nothing. We have survived, is all. And those who come to drown us are envious of our lives lived for so many centuries. Because we are different, we must be washed away. Hist!”

“Angelina means like an angel, yes? And Marguerite is a flower?”
“Yes,” someone said.
“Well then,” murmured Timothy. “Flowers and angels. Not ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Angels and flowers.”
“Let’s drink to that,” said all.

... at the heart of morning welcomes and afternoon laughters is the promise of farewell.

Sunsets are loved because they vanish.
Flowers are loved because they go.
The dogs of the field and the cats of the kitchen are loved because soon they must depart.

Do you know what goodbye means? It means God be with you.

Life is a visit, rounded by sleeps.

“Death is mysterious.” Mother brushed Timothy’s cheek. “Life even more so. Choose. And whether you blow away in dust at life’s end or arrive at youngness and go back to birth and within birth, that is stranger than strange, yes?”

“How long ago did she die?” Timothy asked.
“Ask rather,” said Father, “how soon will she be born.”

“Son,” she said. “We love you. We all love you. No matter how different you are, no matter if you leave us one day.” She kissed his cheek. “And if and when you die your bones will lie undisturbed, we’ll see to that, you’ll lie at ease forever, and I’ll come see you every All Hallows’ Eve and tuck you in more secure.”