It is in the turmoil of chaos that we discover what, if anything, we are.

There was no name for the disease; his body had gone insane, forgotten the blueprint by which human beings were built. Even now the disease still lives on in his children. Not in our bodies, but in our souls. We exist where normal human children are expected to be; we're even shaped the same. But each of us in our own way has been replaced by an imitation child, shaped out of a twisted, fetid, lipidous goiter that grew out of Father's soul.

It's simple. Nothing exists except in relation to something else.

The most noble title any child can have, Demosthenes wrote, is Third.

If pigs could vote, the man with the slop bucket would be elected swineherd every time, no matter how much slaughtering he did on the side.

I've watched through his eyes, I've listened through his ears, and I tell you he's the one.

You're a monster. Thanks. Does this mean I get a raise? No, just a medal. The budget isn't inexhaustable.