Jason Heller Quotes

That would prove a recurring trait in him - the need to cover up his inadequacies with small lies and slight exaggerations. To pretend knowledge he didn't have. I forgave him this flaw for I knew what it hid; I could feel his need like a pleasantly raw wound in my mouth, and I could not help but savour it.

Everywhere they touched, my skin responded. It sent signals to the receiver, to the synth, to the amp, and the sounds were broadcast over the PA. I'd set it to translate this first song into a single key, so the notes built into chords, then broke apart. I had ways to distort, to sustain, to make a note tremble as if it were bowed. It was me: I was playing me; they were playing me. I was the instrument, the conduit, the transmutation of loss into elegy, song into prayer, my own prayers into notes, notes into song. Body and music, fingers and hands, they drew me out.

A bullet is naught but a glorified pebble.

She glimpsed the sexless mounds between their legs and shuddered. For some reason, she found their lack of genitals uncannily obscene, an indignity, a piece of humanity they had been denied.

He kissed the tip of my finger, and I smiled at this. I would not be able to heal him, but he would not hate me for failing. That would be enough for both of us.

see, when I'm not paying attention to my barriers, I can glimpse other people's thoughts. I catch them like lingering aftertastes or smells they leave in their wake: bitter envy, coppery anger, sour regret, the foul miasma of malice and cruelty.

You could love someone so strongly, for so long, and still forget - until the memories returned.

My nerves still spark like ricocheting tracer bullets.

her searches told her all mothers felt this way, at one time or another. There always came a day - no matter how hard one tried, no matter how tightly one locked the door and barred the windows - when the outside world would come creeping in. When your baby's head would turn away from the glowing hearth of home and toward the glitter of false promises.

Judge not what is best by pleasure, though to nature seeming meet, created as thou art to nobler end, holy and pure, conformity divine. It's Milton, Paradise Lost, something Ashey said to me when I told him I wasn't into porn. He's always quoting stuff like that; he thinks it will inspire me. It does.

One of the things I like about Cyber World is that it shows cyberpunk has left its heteronormative boy's club roots behind in the dust.

God bless this encyclopedic Mr. Google, whoever he was.

It wasn't until the first of us began killing ourselves in unusual ways - tearing off our own faces, gnawing off our own limbs - that the government took notice. But they waited until we started killing the oligarchs who created us before they acted. Typical.

Their detectors, like everything else about them and their small, shrinking world, were always looking for the wrong weapons, Sem thought as he began to sharpen his pencil.

It was true. Nothing was ever lost. And nothing was ever forgotten, no matter how painful. The city was like a heart that way. She had four chambers, too. She had arteries that led in and out. She kept things moving. She kept the oxygen flowing in and out, in and out, clean for dirty, dirty for clean, the filthy midnight whispers for the purest morning prayers

And this is the end of Elaine Stainless, it seems. I thought I was helping those I'd harmed before, somehow - that I was making amends. I still think that now, if I'm honest. It's not like there's anything else I can do. Your backstory always gets you in the end.

I blinked, and the world exploded with data. Images, scanned documents and photographs, a whirlwind of numbers, under-the-table deals, and whispered words.

I will dive to find Rosalie. She is out there, floating for me if I can only swim long enough, climbing up through silent silver bubbles up and up and free.

I go outside, bundled against the wind from the east. I wander the streets of my past, waiting for one more dawn.

Today we no longer fear technology. It's no longer a question of assimilation. What remains to be seen is what we are about to become.