The real unforgivable acts are committed by calm men in beautiful green silk rooms, who deal death wholesale, by the shipload, without lust, without anger, or desire, or any redeeming emotion to excuse them but cold fear of some pretended future. But the crimes they hope to prevent in that future are imaginary. The ones they commit in the present - they are real.

Hi, I'm a hero, but I can't tell you why. It's classified.

If you're trying to take a roomful of people by surprise, it's a lot easier to hit your targets if you don't yell going through the door.

I spent my 20s working in patient care at a large university hospital, an experience that has informed all my work and has given me a lot of human observation to draw on.

I'm sorry. I can love you. I can grieve for you, or with you. I can share your pain. But I cannot judge you.

Not that I haven't leaped up into the blinding light of competence now and then. It's sustaining the altitude that defeats me.

The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them.