People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.
—  The Thirteenth Tale, Diane Setterfield.
She had a way with words, but not with people. Poetry in her veins but not on her tongue. She was cursed with a heart that loved too strongly and a mind incapable of letting go. And just like every other storm, she’d forgotten what it feels like to be touched by the sun.
—  My burdens // Adara Lind
We are only what we know, and I wished to be much more than I was, sorely.
—  Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell
Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements - the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life - weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way for them to get into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today.
—  Lawrence M. Krauss, A Universe from Nothing: Why There Is Something Rather Than Nothing