Fletcher Lynd Seagull was still quite young, but already he knew that no bird had ever been so harshly treated by any Flock, or with so much injustice.
For most gulls it was not flying that matters, but eating. For this gull, though, it was not eating that mattered, but flight.
He was not bone and feather but a perfect idea of freedom and flight, limited by nothing at all
It was morning, and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.
Jonathan sighed. The price of being misunderstood, he thought. They call you devil or they call you god.
Le paradis, c'est simplement d'être soi-même parfait.
Like everything else, Fletcher. Practice.
Most gulls don't bother to learn more than the simplest facts of flight - how to get from shore to food and back again
The gull sees farthest who flies highest
We can lift ourselves out of ignorance, we can find ourselves as creatures of excellence and intelligence and skill.
You will begin to touch heaven, Jonathan, in the moment that you touch perfect speed. And that isn't flying a thousand miles an hour, or a million, or flying at the speed of light. Because any number is a limit, and perfection doesn't have limits. Perfect speed, my son, is being there.
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