Scythe Curie Quotes

Ours is a perfect world--but perfection does not linger in one place. It is a firefly, by its very nature elusive and unpredictable.

Marie couldn't help but smile. This girl whom she had not even wanted to take on in the first place had become her greatest supporter. Her truest friend.

Love remains mortal

And as I see it they are all innocent. Even the guilty. Everyone is guilty of something, and everyone still harbors a memory of childhood innocence, no matter how many layers of life wrap around it, Humanity is innocent; humanity is guilty, and both states are undeniably true.

Which is worse - to be despised, or to be ignored? — From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

Scythe Curie seemed a mix of many emotions, but she folded them all away, like clothes that no longer fit, and closed the drawer. Citra expected she never spoke of this to anyone else, and would probably never speak of it again.

The world has a talent for rewarding bad behaviour with stardom

Where are you, my dear Marie?

Scythe Curie seemed a mix of many emotions, but she folded them all away, like clothes that no longer fit, and closed the drawer.

One can never truly master the art of driving, because no journey is ever exactly the same,” Scythe Curie told her. “But once you’ve gained proficiency, it can be rewarding—freeing, even.

I have special permission from our High Blade to fire on you if necessary,” he warned her. “And I have no permission from anyone,” said Scythe Curie, “but I am more than happy to do the same.

thought the Grande Dame of Death would always glean with greater purpose.” A shadow seemed to pass over Scythe Curie’s face. A ghost of some sorrow Citra couldn’t even guess at. “You thought wrong.

The index is supposed to keep the world free from cultural and genetic bias, but aren’t there underlying factors that we can’t escape? For instance, who decided that the first number of one’s genetic index would be Caucasoid?—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

Oh, go glean yourself," Curie said, only partially suppressing her grin. "Only if I can attend my own funeral, my dear.

Her eyes were on the brink of tears. If she blinked, they would fall— but Scythe Curie kept them pooled on her lower lashes, too proud to be seen weeping in conclave.

And Ben blurted out, “You’re Scythe Curie!” “Ben,” chided their mother, “don’t be rude.” “But you are, aren’t you? I’ve seen pictures. You’re famous.

I’ve been looking into the murder of Scythe Faraday.” Scythe Curie actually dropped her fork with a clatter. “You’ve been what?

I can’t believe you’re being taught by the Scythe Curie. The Grandma of Death!” “Grande Dame, not grandma.

Citra grimaced at the thought. Scythe Curie was right—he didn’t sound like the same Rowan she used to know. What had he been through to turn him so cold? She didn’t dare imagine.

The world has a talent for rewarding bad behavior with stardom,” Scythe Curie said, as she viewed some of the videos that had been uploaded.

You’ll be fine, Citra. You’ll be back with Scythe Curie in no time—but you won’t forget what happened today. And I hope you never forgive me.

I can’t believe you’re being taught by the Scythe Curie.  The Grandma of Death!

This won’t do,” said Scythe Curie, and took Citra up into her arms, carrying her.

I can't believe that you're being taught by the Scythe Curie. The Grandma of Death!" "Grande Dame, not grandma.

Citra wondered if all Chilargentine scythes wore robes that seemed not just handmade, but lovingly made. The woman spoke in Spanic and Scythe Curie responded in kind. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanic,

I do not wish to be the harbinger of doom," he said, mournfully, "but this is a secret ballot. I'm sure there'll be quite a few who support Scythe Curie to her face, but will vote for Goddard when no one is looking.

No, I wasn’t, thank goodness,” Scythe Curie said. “I never took life for sport. You see, there are some who seek celebrity to change the world, and others who seek it to ensnare the world. Goddard is of the second kind.

Scythe Curie seemed a mix of many emotions, but she folded them all away, like clothes that no longer fit, and closed the drawer. Citra suspected she never spoke of this to anyone else, and would probably never speak of it again.

Citra returned to Scythe Curie at Falling Water many weeks before Winter Conclave, when the Month of Lights had just begun, and gifts were being passed between friends and loved ones to celebrate ancient miracles that no one quite remembered

He will pretend like it never happened,” Scythe Curie told her as the two of them drove home from the airport. “That’s the closest the man will ever come to an apology.” “But it did happen,” Citra said. “I had to hurl myself from a building to escape from it.” “And I had to blow up two perfectly good cars,” Scythe Curie said wryly.

It wasn’t the most glamorous of disguises, but Citra knew it was practical. No one would look her in the eye for fear of getting an earful of Tonist twaddle. She would hide in plain sight and come home just before Winter Conclave. If Scythe Curie hadn’t cleared her name by then, it wouldn’t matter anyway. She wasn’t about to spend her whole life in hiding.

very painful comedy of errors

And I have faith that you will shine in your final test.

Sycthe Curie gave a rueful guffaw. "You've hit the nail on the head, Anastasia. That's exactly what the sycthedom is: high school with murder.

Well," said Curie, with deadpan irony, "how proud your sponsoring scythe must be to have the first perfect pupil in history.

Gerald Van Der Gans. The Thunderhead had spoken to her, and now, so had Scythe Curie. There was a long journey ahead of Citra, and at the end of it, much work to be done. Citra couldn’t glean, but she could exact vengeance. She would find a way to deliver justice to this scythe-killer one way or another. Never was she so thankful to have a sack full of weapons.

This Porsche was a gift from an antique car dealer,” Scythe Curie explained to her. “He wanted immunity?” Citra asked, assuming the man’s motive. “On the contrary. I had just gleaned his father, so he already had immunity.” “Wait,” said Citra. “You gleaned his father, and he gave you a car?” “Yes.” “So he hated his father?” “No, he loved his father very much.” “Am I missing something?

Good, you're awake. I trust you've healed enough over the past few hours to be a little more coherent, and little less miserable" "coherent, yes. Less miserable, no. Just a deferent kind of misery

Hello, Mrs. Yeltner,” Citra said, guilty to be enjoying the woman’s thinly veiled terror. “G . . . good to see you,” she said, clearly not remembering Citra’s name. “Wasn’t there just a gleaning on your floor earlier this year? I didn’t think it was allowed to hit the same building so soon.” “It’s allowed,” Citra said. “But we’re not here to glean today.” “Although,” added Scythe Curie, “anything’s possible.

She sighed. “I haven’t been in touch with my family for more than a hundred years.” Citra wondered if that would happen to her. Do all scythes lose the ties to everyone they had known—everything they had been before they were chosen? “Susan,” Scythe Curie finally said. “When I was a little girl, they called me Susan. Suzy. Sue.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Susan.” Citra found it next to impossible to imagine Scythe Curie as a little girl.

Had she lived, who knows what she might have done. Perhaps she could have changed the world and redeemed her family name. I choose to be Scythe Anastasia. I vow to become the change that might have been.” The High Blade held her gaze, and held his silence. Then one scythe rose and began applauding. Scythe Curie. Then another joined her and another, and soon the entire Scythedom was on their feet, in an ovation for the newly ordained Scythe Anastasia.

Citra returned to Sythe Curie at Falling Water many weeks before Winter Conclave, when the Month of Lights had just begun, and gifts were being passed between friends and loved ones to celebrate ancient miracles that no one quite remembered.

Citra shook her head. “No! We were pledged to Scythe Faraday and no one else! He died to free us, so we should be freed!” “I’m afraid I’ve already given my blessing, so the matter is settled.” Then he turned to each of them in turn. “You, Citra, will now be the apprentice of Honorable Scythe Curie.…” Rowan closed his eyes. He knew what was coming next, even before Xenocrates said the words. “And you, Rowan, will complete your training in the capable hands of Honorable Scythe Goddard.

The index is supposed to keep the world free from cultural and genetic bias, but aren’t there underlying factors that we can’t escape? For instance, who decided that the first number of one’s genetic index would be Caucasoid? —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

It reminds me that in spite of our lofty ideals and the many safeguards to protect the Scythedom from corruption and depravity, we must always be vigilant, because power comes infected with the only disease left to us: the virus called human nature. I fear for us all if scythes begin to love what they do. —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

I nominated Curie, because I thought it would impress Scythe Anastasia.” “And why would you want to impress her?” Goddard asked. Trick question, thought Morrison. And he decided it was better to be nailed by the truth than to be caught in a lie. “I had the feeling that she was going places – and so I figured if I impressed her—” “You might get pulled along in her wake?” “Yes, something like that.” Goddard nodded, accepting the explanation. “Well, she did go somewhere. Although to be more precise, I suspect she went multiple places before she was fully digested.

It’s not as if we can go somewhere else; the disasters on the moon and Mars colonies proved that. We have one very limited world, and although death has been defeated as completely as polio, people still must die. The ending of human life used to be in the hands of nature. But we stole it. Now we have a monopoly on death. We are its sole distributor. I understand why there are scythes, and how important and how necessary the work is… but I often wonder why I had to be chosen. And if there is some eternal world after this one, what fate awaits a taker of lives? —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

I’m afraid that your sister, Marissa Ferguson, was gleaned by Scythe Curie today at one fifteen p.m. I’m very sorry for your loss.” The man didn’t seem upset or shocked, merely resigned. “Is that all?” “Is that all? Didn’t you hear me? I just told you that your sister was gleaned today.” The man sighed. “That which comes can’t be avoided.” If she didn’t already dislike the Tonists, she certainly did now. “Is that it?” she asked. “Is that your people’s ‘holy’ line?” “It’s not a line; it’s just a simple truth we live by.” “Yeah, whatever you say. You’ll need to make arrangements for your sister’s body—because that’s coming and can’t be avoided either.” “But if I don’t step forward, won’t the Thunderhead provide a funeral?” “Don’t you care at all?” The man took a moment before answering. “Death by scythe is not a natural death. We Tonists do not acknowledge it.” Citra cleared her throat, biting back the verbal reaming she wanted to give him, and did her best to remain professional. “There’s one more thing. Although you didn’t live with her, you are her only documented relative. That entitles you to a year of immunity from gleaning.” “I don’t want immunity,” he said. “Why am I not surprised.” This was the first time she had ever encountered anyone who refused immunity. Even the most downhearted would kiss the ring. “You’ve done your job. You may go now,” Brother Ferguson said. There was only so long Citra could restrain her frustration. She couldn’t yell at the man. She couldn’t use her Bokator moves to kick him in the neck or take him down with an elbow slam. So she did the only thing she could do. She picked up the mallet and put all of her anger into a single, powerful strike at the tuning fork.