…it’s not the truth about others that will set you free, but the truth about yourself.

I saw a lot of men die there. Most men. Do you know what killed them?”…”Despair,” said Finney. “They believed themselves to be prisoners. I lived with those men, ate the same maggot-infested food, slept in the same beds, did the same back-breaking work. But they died and I lived. Do you know why?” “You were free.” “I was free. Milton was right…the mind is its own place. I was never a prisoner. Not then, not now.

Not everything needed to be brought into the light, he knew. Not every truth needed to be told.

“A boy’s face, cheeks, lips, eyes, yes, and reddish-golden hair in provision. Good Lord, it was I…it was not a canvas but a mirror. It was this Amadeo.”

“If I’m an angel, paint me with black wings.”

“And all the lives I’d lived, and the worlds I’d known, seemed even less substantial.”