He looks at the others, computing. Everyone here seems to be at least a double agent.
That something so mutable, so soft, as a sharing of electrons by atoms of carbon should lie at the core of life, his life, struck Jamf as a cosmic humiliation. Sharing? How much stronger, how everlasting was the ionic bond—where electrons are not shared, but captured. Seized! and held! polarized plus and minus, these atoms, no ambiguities . . . how he came to love that clarity: how stable it was, such mineral stubbornness!
How quickly history passes these days.
There is no heart, anywhere now, no human heart left in which I exist. Do you know what that feels like?
What she needs right now in her life, from some man in her life, is stability, mental health and strength of character.
Well, it's a matter of continuity. Most people's lives have ups and downs that are relatively gradual, a sinuous curve with first derivatives at every point. They're the ones who never get struck by lightning. No real idea of cataclysm at all. But the ones who do get hit experience a singular point, a discontinuity in the curve of life—do you know what the time rate of change is at a cusp? Infinity, that's what! A-and right across the point, it's minus infinity! How's that for sudden change, eh?
Они влюблены. Нахуй войну.
Здесь...
Холоднее ведьминских сосков, эхма!
Холодней бадьи пингвиньего дерьма!
Холодней волос в заду у алеута!
Холодней, чем иней на фужере брюта!
The hand of Providence creeps among the stars, giving Slothrop the finger.
Like signals set out for lost travelers, shapes keep repeating for him, Zonal shapes he will allow to enter but won't interpret, not any more.