“Say, darling, I'm giving you this wonderful present, it's a machine that eats at one end and shits out the other, it's going to run for fifteen years, give or take, merry fucking Christmas.”

“We aren't going to fuck, Meg. Even when it's hard and fast or a little rough or a lot dirty, I'm not fucking you. In the kitchen, in the bedroom, on my car, or any damn where I want to take you, will not be fucking. Fucking is for strangers or people who don't give a shit about each other.”

“I cannot believe it," Sean repeated. "It's hypocritical. After the shit she gives me for taking risks? And off she goes, running back to Endicott Falls, today? Like, what the fuck?""To be fair," Bruno pointed out. "You ran off to shoot people and blow shit up. She went home to go back to work at her bookstore.”

“The charming aspect of Christmas is the fact that it expresses good will in a cheerful, happy, benevolent, non-sacrificial way. One says: “Merry Christmas”—not “Weep and Repent.” And the good will is expressed in a material, earthly form—by giving presents to one’s friends, or by sending them cards in token of remembrance.”

“She told me if I clean all the ashes out of the grate, then I’ll be able to help my sisters get ready for the bal.” “It’s Christmas, Dashiel. Can’t you give that atitude a rest?” “Merry Christmas, Dad. And thanks for the presents.” “What presents?” “I’m sorry—those were all from Mom, weren’t they?”

“The test of the machine is the satisfaction it gives you. There isn't any other test. If the machine produces tranquility it's right. If it disturbs you it's wrong until either the machine or your mind is changed.”