More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
The Architect was impossible to miss on screen, a vast polished mass the size of Earth’s lost moon, throwing back every scan and probe sent its way.
the aftermath of even a brush with an Architect’s power: twisted, crumpled metal, curved and corkscrewed by intense gravitational pressures.
the final artistic flourish involved something on the surface looking into the stars and knowing its own doom.
we formally cut ties with the Council of Human Interests
the Foundation somehow never got around to mentioning that the name of the salvage craft was the Vulture God, because that might be seen as bad taste.
Barney, how’re our feathers?” “Fucking bedraggled,”
Idris, who sometimes felt he was built entirely out of competing vulnerabilities, valued them in other people.
Ah, yes. It’s being taken over by the clams.
xenolinguists’
New word of the day.
“They train us to talk about it. They train us to heal, and not to deny we’re in pain. Rock-hard is brittle.” “You going to be doing that around here?” “Among Colonials? No.” The thought made her feel ill. “You people never admit when you’re hurting. Sign of weakness in your culture. Or that’s what I was taught.”
After you’d finished wishing you weren’t alone, you realized you weren’t, and then you really wished you were.
For a mind-splitting moment, human thought and the ponderous cognition of a moon-sized entity had existed in the same frame of reference.
inventing a religion venerating extraterrestrial barnacles was a ludicrous response to meeting an alien species.
A focus so powerful that it could rework a planet at the molecular level—not as an act of brute force but one of loving, careful artistry. Placing every atom perfectly in place. Fit for purpose.
There was an intent behind the Architects. A purpose that was not native to them. A hand that brandished the whip.
“You’re still alive, are you not, my dear ingrate?” Trine retorted.
