What__ the old saying? Ah, I remember now. __uriosity flayed the cat alive, ripped it apart limb from limb, and listened to it scream before it killed it._ That__ the one.

This book's like black holes. It really engulfes you whole.

Had Moreau had any intelligible object, I could have sympathized at least a little with him. I am not so squeamish about pain as that. I could have forgiven him a little even, had his motive been only hate. But he was so irresponsible, so utterly careless! His curiosity, his mad, aimless investigations, drove him on; and the Things were thrown out to live a year or so, to struggle and blunder and suffer, and at last to die painfully.

Suddenly summoned to witness something great and horrendous, we keep fighting not to reduce it to our own smallness.

The shortest interval between two points is the awareness that they are not two.

He was following the Earth through its days, drifting with the rhythms of its myriad pulses, seeping through the webs of its life, swelling with its tides, turning with its weight.