MaddAddam, Margaret Atwood
Now this is the Book that Toby made when she lived among us. See, I am showing you. She made these words on a page, and a page is made of paper. She made the words with writing, that she marked down with a stick called a pen, with black fluid called ink, and she made the pages join together at one side, and that is called a book. See, I am showing you. This is the Book, these are the Pages, here is the Writing.
And she showed me, Blackbeard, how to make such words, on a page, with a pen, when I was little. And she showed me how to turn the marks back into a voice, so that when I look at the page and read the words, it is Toby’s voice that I hear. And when I speak these words out loud, you too are hearing Toby’s voice.

Who cooked the last supper? The women's history of the world, Rosalind Miles
The Adam and Eve myth, possibly the single most effective piece of enemy propaganda in the long history of the sex war […] performed the essential task of putting man first in the scheme of things [...].
Essentially this is just one of the countless attempts of womb-envious men to usurp women’s power of birth: with a swift piece of patriarchal prestidigitation, God reverses biology and stands nature on its head with the birth of his man-child, in defiance of evolution, where men and women evolved together, and of life itself, where woman gives birth to man.
As this shows, under the rule of the father god the male has become the arbiter, type and supreme exemplum of the human race, the female merely a defective instrument, the vehicle designed by God to carry it on.

The ocean at the end of the lane, Neil Gaiman
I wondered how I looked to her, in that place, and knew that even in a place that was nothing but knowledge that was the one thing I could not know. That if I looked inward I would see only infinite mirrors, staring into myself for eternity.

The fault in our stars, John Green
“I’m on a roller coaster that only goes up,” he said.
“And it is my privilege and my responsibility to ride all the way up with you,” I said.
“Would it be absolutely ludicrous to try to make out?”
“There is no try,” I said. “There is only do.”

The song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
Odysseus inclines his head. “True. But fame is a strange thing. Some men gain glory after they die, while others fade. What is admired in one generation is abhorred in another.” He spread his broad hands. “We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory. Who knows?” He smiles. “Perhaps one day even I will be famous. Perhaps more famous than you."

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