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“Night, then.” “It’s morning,” Tristan pointed out. “Only for the unimaginative,”
The duality of their relationship meant that his love could not exist without rage, and his hatred was equally ineffective because it was brittle and porous with longing.
“Do you really find yourself so interesting that everything you do is worth analysis?”
He wanted her to want to be rescued, and she had thought the occasional decision to indulge him was just something people did in relationships. Male ego or whatever. Things good girlfriends did in order to keep the peace.
The past always seems more ordered, Rhodes. It always seems clearer, more straightforward, easier to understand. We have a craving for it, that sense of simplicity, but only an idiot would ever chase the past, because our perception of it is false—it was never that the world was simple. Just that in retrospect it could be known, and therefore understood.
“Unfortunately we haven’t evolved beyond circadian rhythms.”
“To every villain an origin story,”
“You,” Ezra said to Atlas, “are not a god.” “And I lament it every day,” replied Atlas dryly.
Something preceded us, and it will outlast us. There is nothing special about this universe except that it’s ours. And if we are not special, we are not singular. We are not unique.”
“The only principle I know to be true is that of balance,” Atlas supplied for him. “Matter and antimatter. Order and chaos. Luck and unluck. Life and death.”
“I have no fucking clue. I’m just here to mess with Blakely and then, I don’t know. Go back home, make money, and die.”
“Give a man the world and he is hungry in an hour,”
