“It is strange how love is a source for power––can spur the desire to fight to the death, or to fight back from something that seems like death for long enough to write a coherent note––but also of weakness.”

“I had traded the fight against love for the fight against loneliness, the fight against life for the fight against death.”

“Only death can finish the fight, everything else only interrupts the fighting.”

“Death is easy. To live is the most painful thing I could imagine and I'm weak and no longer willing to fight.”

“Likes to fight, does he?" Sandra said thoughtfully."Oh, yeah. He says there are only two reasons to fight." "Which are?""Joy and death."Her mother's brows went up. "Joy in death?""No, no... For joy, to stretch yourself with a friend; or death, to kill as quickly as you can. Nothing in between.”

“And in me too the wave rises. It swells; it arches its back. I am aware once more of a new desire, something rising beneath me like the proud horse whose rider first spurs and then pulls him back. What enemy do we now perceive advancing against us, you whom I ride now, as we stand pawing this stretch of pavement? It is death. Death is the enemy. It is death against whom I ride with my spear couched and my hair flying back like a young man's, like Percival's, when he galloped in India. I strike spurs into my horse. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!”