Quote

You can order yourself to treasure a moment, to cling tight to a feeling and never let it fade, but it's your brain, that three-pound lump of hamburger, that makes the final call.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Order
Brain
Fade
Never
Feeling
Cling
Call
Tight
Moment
Fades
Hamburger
Feelings
Pounds
Lump
Makes
Final
Hamburgers
Moments
Finals
Lumps
Three
Treasure
Pound

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Came to . . . see you.” “But I had to go home, remember? You were supposed to say good-bye.” “Don't know why you . . . say good-bye. I say . . . hello.” Her lip quivers between reactions, but she ends up with a reluctant smile. “God you're a cheeseball. But seriously, R—
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Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.
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I can no longer believe in any voodoo spell or laboratory virus. This is something deeper, darker. This comes from the cosmos, from the stars, or the unknown blackness behind them. The shadows in God's boarded-up basement.
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Why is it beautiful that humanity keeps coming back? So does herpes.
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Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.
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Stop. Breathe those useless breaths. Drop this piece of life you’re holding to your lips. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite.
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Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.
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Music? Music is life! It’s physical emotion - you can touch it! It’s neon ecto-energy sucked out of spirits and switched into sound waves for your ears to swallow. Are you telling me, what, that it’s boring? You don’t have time for it?
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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
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That's why we have memory. And the opposite of memory— hope. So things that are gone can still matter. So we can built off our pasts and make future.
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Life only makes any sense if we can see time how God does. Past, present, and future all at once.
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I wince at her use of the word human. I've never liked that differentiation. She is living and I'm dead, but we're both human. Call me an idealist.
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What happened? How did I get here? How could I have known that my choices mattered?
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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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When the entire world is built on death and horror, when existence is a constant state of panic, it's hard to get worked up about any one thing. Specific fears have become irrelevant. We've replace them with a smothering blanket far worse.
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It's hard to take your life so seriously when you can see it all at once.
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Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
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I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.
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She is Living and I'm Dead, but I'd like to believe we're both human. Call me an idealist.
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