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For he was a man and he was alone and these things had no importance to him.
Why, then, this unkind prejudice, this thoughtless bias? Why cannot the vampire live where he chooses?
Once I thought they sang because everything was right with the world, Robert Neville thought. I know now I was wrong. They sing because they’re feeble-minded.
Morality, after all, had fallen with society. He was his own ethic.
In a world of monotonous horror there could be no salvation in wild dreaming.
A new terror born in death, a new superstition entering the unassailable fortress of forever. I am legend.
