I could end this with a moral, as if this were a fable about animals, though no fables are really about animals.

So Crake never remembered his dreams. It's Snowman that remembers them instead. Worse than remembers: he's immersed in them, he'd wading through them, he's stuck in them. Every moment he's lived in the past few months was dreamed first by Crake. No wonder Crake screamed so much.

I wait. I compose myself. My self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born.

I have a fork and a spoon, but never a knife… as if I’m lacking manual skills or teeth. I have both, however. That’s why I’m not allowed a knife.

If he wants to be an asshole, it's a free country. Millions before him have made the same life choice.

Better never means better for everyone... It always means worse, for some.

There's always something to occupy the inquiring mind.