Keep thinking. You can hear our brains rattling around inside us, like the littler Russian dolls.

At long last, you may no longer distinguish what binds you from what is you.

Perhaps his gloom was due to his profession, that he lived among fallen empires, and in reading these languages that had not been spoken by the common man in centuries, he had all about him the ruin of language, evidence of toppled suburbs, grass growing among the mosaics, and voices that had been choked with poison, iron, age, or ash.

You need the noise of your friends in space.

I've always enjoyed that kind of thing - thinking about the production of narrative and why it is that when we read a novel, we don't notice the fact that someone who might be very close-mouthed or tight-lipped is perfectly willing to tell us a story in 600 or 700 pages.

My idea of life, it's what happens when they're rolling the credits.

You made her apologize for sickness. For her courage. You made her feel sorry for dying.