Stephenie Meyer

It was really too bad [Edward] couldn't hear Bella's thoughts. Then he'd annoy the crap out of her, too, and she'd get tired of him.

James, snapping my leg under his foot. That was nothing. That was a soft place to rest on a feather bed. I'd take that now, a hundred times. A hundred snaps. I'd take it and be grateful.

The brilliant light overhead was still blinding-bright, and yet I could plainly see the glowing strands of the filaments inside the bulb. I could see each color of the rainbow in the white light, and, at the very edge of the spectrum, an eighth color I had no name for.

Carlisle Cullen. Looking at him without that hate clouding my eyes, I couldn't deny that killing him was murder. He was good. Good as any human we protected. Maybe better. Too much better.

Shut up, please, Seth.

Shutting.

"You. Got. Food. In. My. Hair."

"I'll play you for it," Alice suggested. "Rock, paper, scissors." [...]

"Why don't you just tell me who wins?" Edward said wryly.

Alice beamed. "I do. Excellent."

"You ever think about dating?" [...]

"I don't see them either, Quil. I don't see their faces."

How did people do this — swallow all their fears and trust someone else so implicitly with every imperfection and fear they had — with less than the absolute commitment Edward had given me?

Life sucks, and then you die.

Yeah, I should be so lucky.

Bella's sacrifice is a heavy price, and we will all recognize that. It is against everything we stand for to take a human life. Making an exception to that code is a bleak thing. We will all mourn for what we do tonight.

"I told you—," I started to say.

"Did you know that 'I told you so' has a brother, Jacob?" she asked, cutting me off. "His name is 'Shut the hell up.'"