The snow wasn’t deep – in many places its crust was firm enough that they actually walked on top of it – but the wind was surgical, a precision instrument with needles for teeth, and it found even the tiniest exposed places on her skin, attacking them.

You tested this, right?” “You’re actually the first.” Han’s eyes went huge. “What?

You are never going to stop me from achieving my goal, Perry. You ought to know that by now. Do you wish to know the definition of a tragic hero?”“Not particularly.”“A tragic hero is an individual who, with every attempt to restore things to normal, only pushes himself further away from normalcy.”She nodded. “That is you, Perry.

The past is never done with us in any substantial way. The most cursory examination reveals its bloody fingerprints on every surface of our lives.

The Jedi taught you much more than simply how to fight. They taught you how to live, how to live within the Force, and upholad the bond you share with it.

I was going into shock. The pain wasn’t getting any better, and I thought that I would probably black out before I found out how this was going to end. Just as well—I was never particularly good at finishing things.

It was a spectral Manhattan, a double-exposed landscape where the past folded back over on itself in overlapping decades.

I'm just saying --' He pointed the way that Han appeared to be favoring. '--this doesn't feel right''Yeah, well, we're on a Star Destroyer being chased by the living dead. NONE of this feels right

It was as if the door to an asylum had been flung open inside his skull, allowing a wave of incoherent screams, individual cries, and desperate fragmented phrases into his mind.

Self-pity wrapped itself around him like a damp, familiar cloak.