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.

It's like a cockroach working up a plan to defeat the shoe on its way down to crush it.

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

Time for the world to end.

There was, like, this black hole where the world used to be, and we were both falling toward it. What could we hold on to?

Afterward I told his widow, "Your husband is dead, but at least he died laughing.' I think she took some comfort in that. It is the second-best way to die, Will Henry." He did not say what the best way was.

His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield.