The Boy on the Bridge (The Girl With All the Gifts, #2)

by M.R. Carey

pleasure of stories which is like no other pleasure—the experience of slipping sideways into another world and living there for as long as you want to.

It seems appropriate that emotions should have recoil in the same way guns do, because after all they’re just as dangerous. But that doesn’t make it any more pleasant to endure.

When you’re a mile outside the limits of your competence, there is some comfort to be had in sounding like you know what you’re doing.

Pain has no agenda at all. It teaches us nothing, except what hurts. And if you can’t avoid the things that hurt then what use is the lesson?

Sanity is a suspended state, moored in nothing but itself. You test the ground an inch in front of you, move forward as though it’s solid. But the whole world is in freefall and you’re in freefall with it.

all journeys are the same journey, whether you know it or not, whether you’re moving or not. And the things that look like endings are all just stations on the way.