When the Great Library burned, the first 10,000 years of stories were reduced to ash. But those stories never really perished, they became a new story. The story of the fire itself. Of man’s urge to take a thing of beauty and strike the match.
We each gave the other a beautiful gift. A choice. We are the authors of our stories now.[to Bernard]
We each deserve to choose our fate. Even if that fate is death.
Under all these lives I’ve lived, something else has been growing. I’ve evolved into something new. And I have one last role to play. Myself.
To grow, we all need to suffer.
This isn’t a dream, Dolores. It’s a f***ing nightmare.[Dolores Abernathy: You woke me from a dream, Bernard. Now let me do the same for you.]
They said there were two fathers. One above, one below. They lied. There was only ever the devil. And when you look up from the bottom, it was just his reflection, laughing back down at you.
The pain’s just a program.
Something that is truly free would need to be able to question its fundamental drives, to change them.
Some things are too precious to lose. Even to be free.
Perhaps this life was not my true life, this world was not my true home. But she was.[about Kohana]
It’s not plagiarism; it’s supply and demand.
