“End of the day, the quick and the dead are the same. Everyone's just looking for a home.”

“The quick and the dead are all the same. Everyone's just looking for home.”

“After all, tragedy didn't discriminate, so everyone was subject to the same whims of fate.”

“This place is just too frickin precious," the cop said, eyeing a guy dressed in a hot pink leisure suit with makeup to match. "Give me rednecks and home-grown beer any day of the week over this X-culture bullshit.”

“Come here. I need to hold on to you." She felt the same way. And when there was no distance between them, it was like coming home.”

“Or, God, maybe this was just life. For everyone on the planet. Maybe the Survivor's Club wasn't something you "earned," but simply what you were born into when you came out of your mother's womb. Your heartbeat put you on the roster and then the rest of it was just a question of vocabulary: the nouns and verbs used to describe the events that rocked your foundation and sent you flailing were not always the same as other people's, but the random cruelties of disease and accident, and the malicious focus of evil men and nasty deeds, and the heartbreak of loss with all its stinging whips and rattling chains... At the core, it was all the same.”

“Quick question. Does this magical skill with gray matter come with a total lack of compunction for your kind, or is it just you who were born without a conscience?V: I beg your pardon?”