Men always want to be remembered whereas women realize that requires being dead.

Did he die well?" No, I thought. Nobody did. They just died.

He is not the same person as when we met, but . . . neither am I. Time has refined us, but instead of pushing us apart, we’re closer than ever.

Love can make us do dreadful things.

Dying isn’t like living; it requires no effort at all.

Caring too much could be dangerous; I saw that now. But the alternative was no better.

Here in the enclave, one didn't prosper by demonstrating too much independent thought.