All it takes,” said Crake, “is the elimination of one generation. One generation of anything. Beetles, trees, microbes, scientists, speakers of French, whatever. Break the link in time between one generation and the next, and it’s game over forever.

I feel that the task of criticizing my poetry is best left to others (i.e. critics) and would much rather have it take place after I am dead. If at all.

Hatred would have been easier. With hatred, I would have known what to do. Hatred is clear, metallic, one-handed, unwavering; unlike love.

Nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from.

You think I'm not a goddess? Try me. This is a torch song. Touch me and you'll burn.

...and nostalgia swept through Jimmy like a sudden hunger.

Some of our earliest writing, in cuneiform, was about who owes what.