One of the many things that surprised me about Wool is how many of its fans don't consider themselves science fiction readers.

Imagine the first discovery that one of these epidemics was man-made—the panic, the violence that would ensue. That’s where the end would come. A typhoon kills a few hundred people, does a few billion in damage, and what do we do?” Erskine interlocked his fingers. “We come together. We put the pieces back. But a terrorist’s bomb.” He frowned. “A terrorist’s bomb does the same damage, and it throws the world into turmoil.” He spread his hands apart like an explosion going off. “When there’s only God to blame, we forgive him. When it’s our fellow man, we must destroy him.

There were certain things, learned so young and remembered so deep that they felt like little stones in the center of her mind.

Statistics were magic like this: they could tell you with near-certainty that a thing would occur, without a hint of when or where.

It was the hubris of each generation to think this anew, to think that their time was special, that all things would come to an end with them.

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some things are better off back in the past. Where they belong.