All the way, Zoe kept her chin up and pretended she wasn’t mortified, but his sour expression stayed with her. She wasn’t good at making American friends. She changed her language, conduct, and clothing, but it didn’t seem to matter. Whether she wore modest Middle-Eastern clothing or cute Western fashions, everyone knew she didn’t belong.

— Michael Benzehabe

Being articulate is no guarantee of intelligence,” Zoe said. “I’m not doubting the value of education. I’m doubting its reach. Highly educated politicians still do stupid things. Anthony Weiner was educated; Mugabe was educated; Assad was educated; Mussolini was educated. For all their education, look at them.

— Michael Benzehabe

Civil order mattered. Zoe didn’t know why Farah continued to wear the headscarf, but most Middle-Eastern women wore modest clothing to anchor themselves to a moral order, in an upside-down world. Zoe wore the chad or as a protective shell, to erase herself, to avoid thinking, to envelop herself in the complete custody of her adopted Muslim sisters. In their care she would come out healed, able to process the bigotry that caused the murder of her Jewish parents. Then, when she was whole again, she would reclaim her place in the world. Though others couldn’t see it, behind the nameless, shapeless, Middle-Eastern garb, she was healing. The chad or cocooned and nurtured her. Dour exteriors meant blossoming interiors. . . To Zoe. Judaism centered her, but Islam shielded her. Both served their purpose. . . For now.

— Michael Benzehabe

Diplomacy is so weak and prosaic. Diplomacy must never become an end, itself. Facts are so much more important in science. Yet, I'm beginning to appreciate the value of a soft word and a smile. --Unassimilated pg 294

— Michael Benzehabe

In the privacy of her century-worn house she donned an old burka to stay warm. Years earlier, the ragged garment had been discarded by her eldest sister, Sarah. Zoe secretly retrieved it so she could wrap herself in its fond memories. Those memories, good and bad, quickened her weary heart. Only one person could help when she got nerved-up.

— Michael Benzehabe

Li, a willowy fanboy with a shock of black hair atop a mouthful of bad teeth was the brother-in-law he had introduced to industrial espionage several years back. Long often regretted that.

— Michael Benzehabe

No.” The smile had left Sarah’s voice. “He still works for the Basis. Beware of weak men, little sister. He never returned to help, not even to express condolences for Father. Find a strong man. Get a man who will stand up for you, even if it means he has to fight the whole world. There is nothing more dangerous than a weak man.

— Michael Benzehabe

People, like buildings, have facades. Tom created his. His walk was a feat. It had taken him twenty years of killing bad guys and a pair of Tony Lama boots to perfect the illusion. He made sure that everyone felt it by the third clunk of his boot heel. When he entered a crime scene there was a hush, and no one ever quite knew why they were holding their breath. But he did. A crime scene was theater and the stage was his.

— Michael Benzehabe

Pleading for forgiveness was always on the tip of her tongue. She had tried doing a good thing, but because of one thoughtless act, his two beautiful daughters were brutally raped, and running to the other side of the world hadn’t helped. Because of her, two innocent ADP employees were dead. She was older but not a shekel wiser, still opening the wrong doors.

— Michael Benzehabe

Saul had gained his six-foot frame at sixteen, but his muscles didn’t arrive until his early twenties. Between those lost years, he was a gangly, uncoordinated klutz. He was told that he could improve his dancing by watching himself in the mirror. He tried. What he saw was so repulsive that he resolved never to inflict himself on a dance partner. These days, Saul hid those memories behind weight lifting and jogging. His new athletic physique hid his aimless decade as an outsider, an odd and lonely kid--as he remembered it.

— Michael Benzehabe