Scythe Faraday Quotes

Therin lies the paradox of the profession,' Faraday said. 'Those who wish to have the job should not have it...and those who would most refuse to kill are the only ones who should.

Is that why you’re here?” Ben blurted “To glean one of us?” Scythe Faraday offered an unreadable smile. “I’m here for dinner.

The harder you scrutinize randomness," Faraday declared, "the more coincidence seems like a design.

Guilt is the idiot cousin of remorse,” Scythe Faraday had been fond of saying.

For you nothing has changed.” Citra looked down into her cereal. It was Rowan who dared to state the obvious. “Everything has changed, sir.” And then Faraday said something enigmatic that would only resonate with them much later. “Perhaps everything will change again.

Where are you, my dear Marie?

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

Is that why you’re here?” Ben blurted. “To glean one of us?” Scythe Faraday offered an unreadable smile. “I’m here for dinner.

Where’s Scythe Faraday?” Rowan asked. The High Blade took a deep breath in, and sighed. “He invoked the seventh commandment,” Xenocrates said. “Scythe Faraday has gleaned himself.

It means I chose wisely,” Scythe Faraday told her. “If you do not cry yourself to sleep on a regular basis, you are not compassionate enough to be a scythe.

Scythe Faraday’s face was a mask of pain and disbelief. “Citra, oh god, what are you doing here?

anyone’s pocket. “I should like to be on a scythe committee one day,” Rowan said. Citra looked at him oddly. “Why are you talking like Faraday?” Rowan shrugged. “When in Rome . . .” “We’re not in Rome,” she reminded him. “If we were, we’d have a much cooler place for conclave.

In spite of his pain and drug-induced haze, Scythe Faraday smiled. “Yes, your poisons. Are you my apprentice or not?” Citra couldn’t help but smile right back at him. “Yes, Your Honor, I am.

The Thunderhead doesn’t speak to scythes, dear.” “I was still dead… and it told me a name. The man who killed Scythe Faraday.” But the quicksand pulled her down before she could say any more.

Faraday’s home was Spartan. Little decoration. Unimpressive furniture. Rowan’s room had space for only a bed and a small dresser. Citra, at least, had a window, but the view was of a brick wall.

Who's the fat guy?" Citra asked. "He looks important," said Rowan. "Indeed", said Scythe Faraday. "The fat guy's, as you call him, is thew High Blade. The most powerful man in the Midmerican Scythedom.

Who’s the fat guy?” Citra asked. “He looks important,” said Rowan. “Indeed,” said Scythe Faraday. “‘The fat guy,’ as you call him, is the High Blade. The most powerful man in the MidMerican Scythedom. He presides over conclave.

Rowan’s apprenticeship was, to say the least, inconsistent—beginning with stoic and wise Scythe Faraday, and ending with the brutality of Scythe Goddard. If there was one thing that Scythe Faraday had taught him, it was to live by the convictions of his heart, no matter what the consequences. And if there was one thing Scythe Goddard had taught him, it was to have no heart, taking life without regrets. The two philosophies forever warred in Rowan’s mind, rending him in two. But silently.

And then there was the gleaning. “Each scythe must perform a quota of two hundred sixty gleanings per year,” Scythe Faraday told them, “which averages to five per week.” “So you get weekends off,” joked Rowan—trying to add a little nervous levity to the discussion

She pressed her fingers to the woman’s carotid artery, just beneath her ear. “No pulse.” Satisfied, Scythe Faraday stood. “So that’s it?” Citra asked. “What were you expecting?” said Rowan. “A chorus of angels?” Citra threw him a halfhearted glare. “But I mean… it’s so… uneventful.

I am apprenticed to a monster. Scythe Faraday was right: Someone who enjoys killing should never be a scythe. It goes against everything the founders wanted. If this is what the Scythedom is turning into, someone has to stop it. But it can’t be me. Because I think I’m becoming a monster, too.

Never lose your humanity,” Scythe Faraday had told him, “or you’ll be nothing more than a killing machine.” He had used the word “killing” rather than “gleaning.” Rowan hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now he understood; it stopped being gleaning the moment one became desensitized to the act.

I expect a full night's sleep from you, followed by a recitation of your poisons in the morning, in order of toxicity." "My poison?" In spite of his pain and drug-induced haze, Scythe Faraday smiled. "Yes, your poisons. Are you my apprentice or not?" Citra couldn't help but smile right back at him. "Yes, Your Honor, I am.

It reminds me that some forces of nature can never be entirely subdued. They are eternal, which is a far better thing to be than immortal.

Those who wish to have the job should not have it… and those who would most refuse to kill are the only ones who should.

...I find myself asking again and again, where are you, my dear Marie? - From the "postmortem" journal of Scthe Michael Faraday, May 18th, Year of the Raptor.

What I did? I haven’t done anything! What am I being accused of?” “An ancient crime called murder,” he said. “The murder of Honorable Scythe Michael Faraday.

Faraday would have known. There were so many things Rowan missed about being Faraday’s apprentice. The inside scoop was one of them.

Citra thought about Faraday, a decent scythe most certainly choked out by the weeds.

I should like to be on a scythe committee one day,” Rowan said. Citra looked at him oddly. “Why are you talking like Faraday?” Rowan shrugged. “When in Rome…

After being an apprentice for nearly three months, Citra couldn’t deny that she wanted to be chosen by Scythe Faraday to receive the ring. As much as she resisted, as much as she told herself this was not the life for her, she had come to see its importance, and how good a scythe she would be. She had always wanted to live a life of substance and to make a difference.

Therein lies the paradox of the profession,” Faraday said. “Those who wish to have the job should not have it . . . and those who would most refuse to kill are the only ones who should.

I thought you were someone else,” she told him. “Someone named Gerald Van Der Gans. . . .” “My birth name,” he told her. “A name I surrendered when I became Honorable Scythe Michael Faraday.

People are saying that Scythe Faraday was killed by another scythe.” Goddard stopped in his tracks, and slowly turned back to Rowan. “Is that what people are saying?” Rowan took a deep breath and shrugged, trying to make it seem like it was nothing, trying to backpedal. But it was too late for that. “It’s just a rumor.” “And you think I might somehow be involved?” “Are you?” asked Rowan.

I have chosen both of you!” Faraday said, raising his voice. “You will both learn the trade. But in the end, only one of you will receive the ring. The other may return home to his or her old life.

There was an odd justice to it. Not so much live-by-the-blade/die-by-the-blade; it was more becoming the blade, and losing oneself. Scythe Faraday had once told him and Citra that they were called scythes rather than reapers, because they were not the ones who killed; they were merely the tool that society used to bring fair-handed death to the world. But once you’re the weapon, you’re nothing more than a tool for someone else to wield.

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.

Who do you think did it?” Rowan asked. “Who had the most to gain by getting Faraday out of the picture?” Neither of them needed to say it out loud. They both knew the answer. Rowan knew that Goddard was capable of unthinkable things, but would he kill another scythe?

She uploaded an image of Scythe Faraday to see if she could isolate videos in which he appeared, but as she suspected, nothing came back. The Thunderhead’s hands-off policy when it came to scythes meant that scythe’s images were not tagged in any way. Still, she had successfully narrowed the field from billions of records to millions. However, tracking Scythe Faraday’s movements on the day he died was like trying to find a needle in a field of haystacks that stretched to the horizon. Even so, she was determined to find what she was looking for, no matter how long it took.

This time there was no delay between explosion and sound. The ends of her hair singed. Shrapnel shredded the palm leaves around her. She hit the ground, and Faraday dove on top of her to protect her. Another explosion, along with heat that she thought would ignite their flesh … but then it faded, resolving into twangs of dying metal and the acrid smell of burning insulation. When they looked

Faraday sighed. “Fatalities in parking lots made up 1.25 percent of all accidental deaths during the last days of the Age of Mortality. Last night I decided I would choose today’s subject from a parking lot.” “So all this time while we were shopping, you knew it would end with this?” Rowan said. “I feel bad for you,” said Citra. “Even when you’re food shopping, death is hiding right behind the milk.” “It never hides,” the scythe told them with a world-weariness that was hard to describe. “Nor does it sleep. You’ll learn that soon enough.

There were five witnesses. I couldn’t track them down without digging into the Scythedom’s records, and if I did that, they’d know I was looking. But it only makes sense that those witnesses would have gone up these stairs, too, right? There were eighteen people who went up the stairs around the time that Faraday died. Some of them probably got on this first train.” She pointed to the train leaving the station. “But not all of them. Of those eighteen people, I was able to identify about half of them. And three of them were granted immunity that very day.

Immortality cannot temper the folly or frailty of youth. Innocence is doomed to die a senseless death at our own hands, a casualty of the mistakes we can never undo. So we lay to rest the wide-eyed wonder we once thrived upon, replacing it with scars of which we never speak, too knotted for any amount of technology to repair. With each gleaning I commit, with each life taken for the good of humanity, I mourn for the boy I once was, whose name I sometimes struggle to remember. And I long for a place beyond immortality where I can, in some small measure, resurrect the wonder, and be that boy again. —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Faraday

My greatest wish for humanity is not for peace or comfort or joy. It is that we all still die a little inside every time we witness the death of another. For only the pain of empathy will keep us human. There’s no version of God that can help us if we ever lose that. —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Faraday