“Souls were the same. They, too, had useless baggage that impeded their proper performance, these annoying, holier-than-thou bits dangling like an appendix waiting for infection. Faith and hope and love...prudence, temperance, justice, and fortitude...all this useless clutter just packed too much damn morality into the heart, getting in the way of the soul's innate desire for malignancy.”

“they all think men are obsolete. useless. as if we're just some sexual appendix.”

“Don't tell them too much about your soul. They're waiting for just that.”

“All anyone can hope for is just a tiny bit of love, like a drop in a cup if you can get it, or a waterfall, a flood, if you can get that too.”

“One word is too often profanedFor me to profane it,One feeling too falsely disdain'dFor thee to disdain it.One hope too like dispairFor prudence to smother,I can give not what men call love:But wilt thou accept notThe worship the heart lifts aboveAnd heaven rejects not:The desire of the moth for the star,The devotion of something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow?”

“Everything was too sharp and clear, so that I could never tell where to start- the way a map that shows too much can sometimes be useless.”