Sweet to think on it, that when we are last weary of all this world there is the rising sun

In the name of Christ, I quit Christianity.

You can look at the New York Times Bestseller List and you can be pretty sure that the writers on that list don't know each other very well.

Who knew that better than I, who had presided over the death of my own body, seeing all I called human wither and die only to form an unbreakable chain which held me fast to this world yet made me forever its exile, a specter with a beating heart?

You are alone when something like this happens. Doesn't matter how many people love you and want to help you. You are alone. When Marchent died, she was alone.

I know nothing, because I know too much, and understand not nearly enough and never will.

As for oblivion, well, we can wait a little while for that.