“Yankel's lipstick autobiography came flaking off his bedroom ceiling, falling gently like blood-stained snow to his bed and floor. You are Yankel. You love Brod. You are a Sloucher. You were once married, but she left you. You don't believe in an afterlife.”

“She took the paper from Yankel's hand, which was damp with rain, and fear of death, and death. Scrawled in a child's writing: Everything for Brod.”

“Then she says, ‘I love you.’ Like three drops of blood falling onto snow.”

“Reuben says in many cultures, the wedding ceremony and all of it's rituals are much the same as a funeral: a transition into another phase of life.It is like dying and being reborn, if you believe in the afterlife. If you don't believe in an afterlife, then you are toast”

“Have you ever been married?""Nope. I was close once.""You were engaged?""No, but I came close to thinking about it."She didn't believe close to thinking about it counted. "What happened?""I got a good look at her mother and ran like hell.”

“Good,” Simon said. “If you want to know why, it’s because you smell like blood.” “It’s my cologne. Eau de Recent Injury.” Jace raised his left hand. It was a glove of white bandages, stained across the knuckles where blood had seeped through.”