Peter F. Hamilton

The thing is this, Tim; you’re eighteen, forever is about a month at your age.

“Bankers in pain,” Alan said. “Now there’s a happy thought.”

Having a famous father is a difficult concept for any child to understand. After all, he is just your father, nothing else, nothing exceptional.

Lost causes are the worst kind to fight.

Jeff hadn’t played croquet for twenty years. It was fun remembering all the dirty tricks. Anybody who believed that croquet was a civilized sport had clearly never played before.

It must be a sign of true age to think parties were a pain to be avoided at all costs.

Jesus, what planet do they import people like that from?

“Ladies,” Pamela raise her glass. “A toast.”

“A toast,” they agreed.

“Expensive shopping, older champagne, and younger men.”

I’ve got the worst time of my life ahead of me, and our wonderful medical establishment will stretch it out and out until I just scream for it to end.

When he thought about it, he wasn’t totally sure what kind of group he did want to be with on a permanent social basis. Late twenties, probably, or early thirties. Young enough not to be boring, old enough to have some wisdom.

But the thing is, you can never believe that anyone who looks so lovely can be anything other than lovely. Especially when it comes to women. I mean, that knowledge is hardwired into a man’s genes. Pretty equals nice. Jesus wept, did I ever learn the hard way. I’m not joking, Tim, Flaky Tracy turned out to be the ultimate bitch demon from hell. The only reason she was sent to roam the earth was because the devil got nervous when she was around down below.

Politicians, they’re all as bad as each other.