We'd stared into the face of Death, and Death blinked first. You'd think that would make us feel brave and invincible. It didn't.

The doctor frowned upon drinking and often expressed wonderment at men who willingly made imbeciles of themselves.

There's the bullshit you know that you know; the bullshit you don't know and know you don't know; and the bullshit you just think you know but really don't.

You're mortal, and only a mortal can afford to be romantic. When we conquered death, we murdered love.

Memories can bring comfort to the old and infirm, but memories can also be implacable foes, a malicious army of temporal ghosts forever pillaging the long-sought-after peace of our twilight years.

And in more than half the pictures, she isn't looking at the camera; she's looking at him. Not the way I would look at Ben Parish, all squishy around the eyes. She looks at Evan fiercely, like, This here? It's mine

What doesn't kill us sharpens us. Hardens us. Schools us. You're beating plowshares into swords, Vosch. You are remaking us. We are the clay, and you are Michelangelo. And we will be your masterpiece.