It was funny, Grey thought. Not funny ha-ha but funny strange, the whole idea of time. He’d thought it was one thing but it was actually another.

Events can seem random while you’re living them, but when you look back, what do you see? A chain of coincidences? Plain old luck? Or something more? I’ll tell you what I see, Peter. A clear path. More than that. A true path.

All those years, waiting for the Army, and it turns out the Army is us.

I died and then was brought to life, the oldest tale there is. I.

Maybe just being alive, and having someone to love who loved you back, was enough.

How stark everything became, at the end, all the wishes for one’s children distilled by the world’s swift cruelty into the desperate hope that death would take them fast.

Writers who pretend that everything they’re doing is completely new are full of it.

A hundred and twelve miles to the north, traveling east on Interstate 76, Kittridge had also begun to worry about fuel.

What were the living dead, Wolgast thought, but a metaphor for the misbegotten march of middle age?

There’s a power at work here, something beyond our understanding. You can call it what you like. It doesn’t need a name, because it knows yours, my friend.