Ring around the rosie. A pocket full of posie. Ashes ashes, we all fall down. Some people say that this poem is about the Black Death, the fourteenth-century plague that killed 100-million people... Sadly, though, most experts think this is nonsense... How can I be so sure about this rhyme when all the experts disagree? Because I ate the kid who made it up.

Nature didn't need an operation to be beautiful. It just was.

Perhaps Clankers and Darwinists would always be at war, if only in their hearts.

I'm not the one going for a biology degree. I'm just a philosophy major who eats people.

Maybe this was how you stayed sane in wartime: a handful of noble deeds amid the chaos.

...I want those perfect eyes and lips, and for everyone to look at me and gasp. And for everyone who sees me to think Who's that? and want to get to know me, and listen to what I say." "I'd rather have something to say.

You can't blame a match for a house made of straw, Alek.