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Laurence felt a weird combination of shame and rage, as though he'd grown another new body part just in time to get punched in it.
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He found himself curious to ask her stuff and see how she responded - because he never, ever knew what Patricia would say about anything. He only knew it would be something weird.
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Plus Ginnifer’s Sexoskeleton, which would take way too long to describe.
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Worry is often a symptom of imperfect information.
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If I could turn people into turtles, there would be turtles everywhere.
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Serafina was late for dinner because her emotional robots had been having a nervous breakdown.
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It just … makes serendipity happen more often.
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“Laurence?” “Yeah.” He shrugged. And then his eyes grew. “Patricia?” “Yeah.” “Oh, cool. It’s good to, uh, see you again. How have you been?”
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We could not ‘break’ nature if we spent a million years trying. This planet is a speck, and we are specks on a speck. But our little habitat is fragile, and we cannot live without it.
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And she felt like they, the two of them, right here, right now, could make something that defied tragedy.
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If she ended, his life would go on, but his story would be over.
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Self-awareness paradoxically requires an awareness of the other.
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The longer I live, the more I feel like the stuff I see and feel is like a tracing of the outline of the real stuff that’s beyond our perceptions.
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“My god,” Mr. Rose was saying loud enough to ring through the crowded hallway. “What have you done?
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Actually, Laurence is hardly ever home; this is the first I’ve seen him in weeks. Which can only mean one thing: Red Dwarf marathon.
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Under a brazen sky that proclaimed all the things we had thought our limits were merely our prejudices.
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Everything is a different shape in the dark. Sharp edges are sharper, walls farther away, fragile items more prone to topple.
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He just wanted to be left alone and maybe have people get his name right if they had to talk to him.
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Patricia decided there was nothing to do but climb the nearest tree and see if she could see anything from it. Like a road. Or a house. Or some landmark that Dirrp might recognize.
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Live every day as if you've come back in time from a dystopian future to try and prevent everything from breaking.
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I mean, we're grown-ups now. Allegedly. And we feel things less than we did when we were kids, because we've grown so much scar tissue, or our senses have dulled. I think it's probably healthy. I mean, little kids don't have to make decisions, unless something's very wrong. Maybe you can't make up your mind as easily, if you feel too much. You know?
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Maybe she would have done more good as a playwright than as a doctor, after all - clichés were like plaque in the arteries of the imagination, they clogged the sense of what was possible. Maybe if enough people had worked to demolish clichés, the world wouldn't have ended.
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Every human can be a wizard.
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Genres are like the surface of the ocean. There are waves and things moving, but you don't instantly see all the reefs and ecosystems that's happening beneath the surface.
Charlie Jane Anders