Цитаты из книг — Дэрил Грегори

Each of us, as we turned off the light, felt a tingle of dread. But that was all right.The feeling was as familiar as the dark. Some of us thought of what Jan had whispered in the basement, words that Stan had repeated for the others as we said our goodbyes. We`re different from other people, she`d said. We only feel at…

We were criminals now: murderers and kidnappers and conspirators. As a therapy group we had clinched the prize for Worst Outcome Ever.

A monster crosses over into the everyday world. The mortals struggle and show great courage, but it`s no use. The monster kills first the guilty, then the innocent, until finally one remains. The Last Boy, the Last Girl. There is a final battle. The Last One suffers great wounds, but in the final moment vanquishes the…

We were a team of professional insomniacs. Once you there are monsters under the bed, closing your eyes becomes a foolhardy act. So, we paced. We stared into the dark. We listened for the creak of the opening door.

We. Such a slippery little pronooun. Who is in and who is out? If we say, "we lost one of us," the number included in the pronoun changes in midsentence. To Martin the word was like a variable in a computer program, a running counter that had a different value depending on when you looked at it. But the problem was more…

"Also, I might be entertaining the idea of tamping down my nihilism. Just a bit. Not because life is not meaningless -- I think that`s inarguable. It`s just that the constant awareness of its pointlessness is exhausting. I wouldn`t mind being oblivious again. I`d love to feel the wind in my face and think, just for a…

He was suspicious of the very premise of therapy. The idea that people could change themselves, he told Dr. Sayer in their pre-group interview, was a self-serving delusion. She believed that people were captains of their own destiny. He agreed, as long as it was understood that every captain was destined to go down with…

— Невозможно отделить научную фантастику от жанра фэнтези, — вещал тем временем ВАЛИС, — и я сейчас объясню почему. Возьмем, к примеру, псионику или мутантов типа тех, которые описываются в книжке «Больше чем люди». Если читатель не исключает, что такие мутанты действительно могли бы существовать, значит, роман Старджона…

"Think of possession as a hostage situation," she said. "The bad man is inside the house, holding the girl with a gun to her head. You can`t rush the house. All you can do is give in to his demands, or try to convince him that the demands will never be met. Or, you can broker an exchange of hostages."

"But you cannot separate science fiction from fantasy," Valis said, "and a moment`s thought will show why. Take psionics; take mutants such as we find in More Than Human. If the reader believes that such mutants can exist, then he will view Sturgeon`s novel as science fiction. If, however, he believes that such mutants…

"The last time we`d talked — well, I got a letter from you when you went to college. You couldn`t decide what to major in." "I opted for a degree in Starving Artist."

"Lucky?" Lew said. "Why do people say that? You get a tumor, and if it turns out that you can operate on it, people say, gee, that was lucky. No, lucky is not getting cancer. Lucky is not getting cancer, then finding then bucks in your shoe."

...Aunt Sel had asked me to bring her a glass of wine—it was nine in the morning—and when I’d delivered it she’d handed me a ten dollar bill and said, “I dislike children, but I do appreciate decent service.”

"You can`t blame people for wanting to tell your story," Greta said. "You`re a hero." "That`s bullshit," he said. "Not total bullshit," she said. "You`re an optimist. Let`s agree that the glass is half full of shit." "You saved an entire town!" "If by 'saving' you mean that slightly fewer died than every single fucking…

Every small group was a chemistry experiment, and the procedure was always the same: bring together a group of volatile elements, put them in a tightly enclosed space, and stir. The result was never a stable compound, but sometimes you arrived at something capable of doing hard work, like a poison that killed cancer…

Barbara`s torture had, in her mind, transformed her into a separate class of person. She could impersonate the perfect mother, she believed, but never be her. She could pass. But no citizen of normal, she believed, could possibly understand what she`d experienced. What she`d become.