Indeed, she often wondered if she were dead, or dying from the inside out, and that was the root of her calm, the reason she could surrender her character.

The sweet accident of coincidence is the best foundation on which to build.

We start out in identical perfection: bright, reflective, full of sun. The accident of our lives bruises us into dirty individuality. We meet with grief. Our character dulls and tarnishes. We meet with guilt. We know, we know: the price of living is corruption. There isn’t as much light as there once was. In the grave we lapse back into undifferentiated sameness

It's unbecoming," she agreed. "A perfect word for my new life. Unbecoming. I who have always been unbecoming am becoming un.

We only have babies when we're young enough not to know how grim life turns out.

Light will blind us in time, but what we learn in the dark can see us through.

Immortality is a chancy thing; it cannot be promised or earned. Perhaps it cannot even be identified for what it is.