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.

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.

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

Where are you, my dear Marie?

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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

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.

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

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