Dammit, Dresden, if you want to know about me, wait for the autobiography like everyone else.

Bob, would you be willing to take on Evil Bob?" Bob's eyes darted nervously. "I'd . . . prefer not to. I'd really, really prefer not to. You have no idea. That me was crazy. And buff. He worked out.

When you die, do you want to feel ashamed of what you've done with your life? Feel ashamed of what your life meant?

My faith protects me. My Kevlar helps.

Oh, I forgot to mention it: My brother is the kind of man whom women stalk. In cooperative packs.

Life can be confusing. Good God, and how. Sometimes it seems like the older I get, the more confused I become. That seems ass-backwards. I thought I was supposed to be getting wiser. Instead, I just keep getting hit over the head with my relative insignificance in the greater scheme of the universe. Confusing, life. But it beats the hell out of the alternative.

If you go to your death rather than do everything you might to prevent what is happening, you are merely committing suicide and trying to make yourself feel better about it. That is the act of a coward. It is beneath contempt.