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It was the kind of experience, Molly said, that would grow calluses on an angel's ass.
Robert Charles Wilson
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Robert Charles Wilson
Age: 71
Born: 1953
Born: December 15
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Whittier
California
Angel
Grow
Grows
Experience
Kind
Would
Calluses
Molly
Ass
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And death? I don't fear death. I dread the absence of it.
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When does loyalty become martyrdom?
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Some things are taken away from you, some you leave behind and some you carry with you, world without end.
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You never stop being a parent, Adam, no matter how old or wise your child becomes you'll see.
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Do you want to tell the truth, or do you want to tell a story?
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I won't put my ignorance on an altar and call it God. It feels like idolatry, like the worst kind of idolatry.
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Consciousness, according to current scientific thought, was something the higher mammals had evolved in order to help them reproduce, much the way a garden slug secretes slime. It had no special ontological status. The self was a genetically modulated and biologically useful illusion.
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Average people seldom talked about anything interesting and often hurt each other savagely.
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I loved Molly. Or at least I told myself I did. Or, if what I felt for her was not love, it was at least a plausible imitation, a convincing substitute.
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Times like this, with the wind moving the grass and curling around her like a huge cool hand, Tess felt the world as a second presence, as another person, as if the wind and the grass had voices of their own and she could hear them talking.
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An honest book is almost as good as a friend.
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