Emma Newman

Nobody does emotional distancing from reprehensible behavior better than the British, after all.

That’s the trouble with these violent mersives: once the limbic system gets involved my higher cognitive functions are screwed.

I’m not going to let that stupid, crazy woman convince everyone that doing this to me is God’s work! She’s just bored and if they knew—

Show me a person who doesn’t have ongoing problems and I’ll show you an AI.

I’m not sure what the masses enjoy more: being swept into a fervor about the latest big story or the backlash against it. It all ends the same way: by the time whatever is being hyped actually happens, most people have used up all the fucks they could possibly give about it.

The priest didn’t have one of the magic gems stitched into his head though, because he thought that talking to everyone else meant that you never listened to yourself anymore.

He doesn’t answer. I can’t stand these little silences from him. They’re too loud.

No. I won’t think about that. I’m not the man the press wants me to be. I am not the victim here.

She looks at me like I’m a car engine that’s been making a strange noise.

Everybody is on a leash. Some are more obvious than others.

I hate dealing with these people.

No, I hate dealing with people, but the rich ones are the worst.

The car takes us along a long, winding drive, the kind reserved for the sort of place owned by people who want you to spend the last minutes of your journey appreciating just how rich they are.