“It's what I was born for, isn't it? If I don't go, why am I alive?”

“Here's what it is, here's what it isn't, now here's why you need to go tell everyone how smart I am.”

“Now look at me! Take a good look! I was born and I knew I was alive and I knew what I wanted. What do you think is alive in me? Why do you think I'm alive? Because I have a stomach and eat and digest the food? Because I breathe and work and produce more food to digest? Or because I know what I want, and that something which knows how to want—isn't that life itself? And who—in this damned universe—who can tell me why I should live for anything but for that which I want?”

“I'm not happy," she whispered. "I don't know what I am, but this isn't happiness.”

“The truth is that this was something over which I had no control and the question is not why but what. What am I going to do with this? What am I going to make of it?”

“Do you know why dead people only go out at night, puppy? Because it's easier to pass for real, in the dark. And I don't want to have to pass. I want to be alive.”