“She was an alien, really - a sort of eating, pooping, tantrum machine - and he didn't understand anything about her species.”

“If you're really a mean person you're going to come back as a fly and eat poop.”

“There are two kind of men,' said Ka, in a didatic voice. 'The first kind does not fall in love until he's seen how the girls eats a sandwich, how she combs her hair, what sort of nonsense she cares about, why she's angry at her father, and what sort of stories people tell about her. The second type of man -- and I am in this category -- can fall in love with a woman only if he knows next to nothing about her.”

“Wait. Is this book about aliens?”She snatched it back from me. “Yes.”“Really?”“But they’re hot aliens.” She tapped on the guy’s face with one thin finger. “And he can be my ET any day.”

“She didn't use the misery of others to cultivate her own smugness, true, but at least I didn't go about eating all their food.”

“In the end, he had to admit, he didn't really understand her. He didn't understand women. He didn't understand men. He didn't even understand children very well. All he really understood, he thought, was himself and the rest of the universe. Neither anything like completely, of course, but both well enough to know that what remained to be discovered would make sense; it would fit in, it could all be gradually and patiently fitted together a bit at a time, like an infinite jigsaw puzzle, with no straight edges to look for and no end in sight, but one in which there was always going to be somewhere for absolutely any piece to fit.”