The My Clippings section on my Kindle

"In the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king," Sanjit said. "In the dark the one guy with a candle is an easy target," Sam countered.

It's not the monsters who are so completely different that are scary. It's the ones who are too human. They carry with them the warning that what happened to them might happen to you, too.

Numbers still gave her pleasure. That was the great thing about numbers: it required no faith to believe that two plus two equaled four. And math never, ever condemned you for your thoughts and desires.

Weird thing was: that's how you got to be king, by calling yourself one. And getting others to agree.

Me? I'm going on an epic killing spree.

What a treacherous thing it is to believe that a person is more than a person.

We can hear others, and we can travel to them without moving, and we can imagine them, and we are all connected one to the other by a crazy root system like so many leaves of grass - but the game makes we wonder whether we can really ever fully become one another.

And all at once I knew how Margo Roth Spiegelman felt when she wasn't being Margo Roth Spiegelman: she felt empty. She felt the unscaleable wall surrounding her. I thought of her asleep on the carpet with only that jagged sliver of sky above her. Maybe Margo felt comfortable there because Margo the person lived like that all the time: in an abandoned room with blocked-out windows, the only light pouring in through holes in the roof. Yes. The fundamental mistake I had always made - and that she had, in fairness, always led me to make - was this: Margo was not a miracle. She was not an adventure. She was not a fine and precious thing. She was a girl.

I mean, at some point, you gotta stop looking up at the sky, or one of these days you'll look back down and see that you floated away, too.

When you say nasty things about people, you should never say the true ones, because you can't fully and honestly take those back, you know?

Every moment of your life is lived for the future - you go to high school so you can go to college so you can get a good job so you can get a nice house so you can afford to send your kids to college so they can get a good job so they can get a nice house so they can afford to send their kids to college.

Here's the thing: I found a dead guy. Little, adorable nine-year-old me and my even littler and more adorable playmate found a guy with blood pouring out of his mouth, and that blood was on her little, adorable sneakers, but so what? People I don't know die all the damned time. If I had a nervous breakdown every time something awful happened in the world, I'd be crazier than a shithouse rat.

But love wasn't rational. Love didn't have to make sense. Neither did hope. So she held onto her love and to her hope.

Good God! it is very easy to be kind; the difficulty lies in being just.

The highest law is conscience.

He was lonely, but maybe loneliness wasn't as bad as the ridicule.

Dekka watched him go. "Edilio's a good guy," she said. "But?" "But, he's a normal." "There aren't going to be any lines like that, between freak and normal," Sam said firmly. Dekka almost, but didn't quite, laugh. "Sam, that's a great concept. And maybe you believe it. But I'm black and I'm a lesbian, so let me tell you: from what I know? Personal experience? There are always lines."