“We are not going to die." Butters stared up at me, pale, his eyes terrified. "We're not?" "No. And do you know why?" He shook his head. "Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I'm too stubborn to die." I hauled on the shirt even harder. "And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die.”

“I'm writing this book because we're all going to die.”

“You’re not dying,” he said.“How do you know?”His eyes latched onto mine. “Because I’d never let that happen.”

“One question," I said. "Did you tell me all that because you think I'm going to die?""No," he said. "It's because you're doing something brave, and I felt I should too.""I'll take that as a yes," I said.”

“We didn't die,' she said.Of course not. I'm too clever to die, and you're too pretty.'I am pretty,' Valkryie said, managing a grin.”

“When King Lear dies in Act V, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He's written "He dies." That's all, nothing more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of dramatic literature is "He dies." It takes Shakespeare, a genius, to come up with "He dies." And yet every time I read those two words, I find myself overwhelmed with dysphoria. And I know it's only natural to be sad, but not because of the words "He dies." but because of the life we saw prior to the words.”