He takes out a cigarette and offers one to me. "I try not to indulge. It's a filthy habit," I tell him. "I love that word filthy. I love the way you force it out of your mouth like it's some kind of vermin you want to get rid of." "You've had vermin in your mouth?" "You're mean in that way, you know. You don't let anyone get away with pathetic analogies.

No chance. It'd be like cutting off our hands." "Then learn to live without your hands." "No, because then we won't be able to do this," Ben says, giving him the finger [...]

Then he holds her and for a moment I hear total silence; that totally silent part of a cry that announces that the most horrible grief is going to follow. And it does, and he's muffling it, but I can hear and I want someone to come over and jab her with a sedative because its pitch pierces my soul.

And I hear nothing because it's like the volume button has been turned down on our lives and nobody has anything to say anymore." "I want to be an adjective again. But I am a noun.

you grab at any sign of hope. You grab it with both hands and breathe life into it, day after day. You do anything to keep it alive.

Sheep. Looting. Cousins." Lucien cursed and got out of bed.

Comfort zones are overrated. They make you lazy.