In Dominion they have a saying about the Lasters. Those who can, Splice. Everyone else comes in Last.

I stare at the long, almost elegant thinness of the wrist bone jutting out from a heap of flesh and cloth. All that separates us, that poor woman and me, is an accident of birth.

What's a Laster? A dead man.

By your eighteenth birthday you're supposed to know. They're supposed to tell you. Splicer. True Born. Laster.

A true friend finds a way to celebrate—even in the worst moments of life—and forces it upon you.

I wish to be a product not a consumer.

I couldn’t control my heart as it thumped out of control in my chest, insistent on remindin’ me that it was still in there. That it was still beating. For damn Archer Beaufait.

I grew up in a pretty tough neighborhood.

I discovered that maybe it was fate all along, that faith was just an illusion that somehow you're in control.

Different styles work for different guys... If you can handle shortstop and hit, teams will find a way to pencil you into the lineup.

What was it that drew you back? My marvellous personality, I suppose? Or my sparkling conversation?

I am convinced of the afterlife, independent of theology. If the world is rationally constructed, there must be an afterlife

[about her offer of a Swedish massage] Alex: You're not Swedish. Brittany: Yeah, well, neither are you. So if I do it wrong you'll never know the difference.