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“The human species pretends it's so resilient. Mortal lives are one long game of make-believe. If you couldn't lie to yourselves, you'd cut your own throats to end your misery.' I am struck by the word species, by the idea that he thinks I am something entirely else, like an ant or a dog or a deer. I am not sure he's wrong, but I don't like the thought. 'I don't feel particularly miserable right now.' I can't show him I'm afraid. His mouth curls. 'What happiness do you have? Rutting and breeding. You'd go mad if you accepted the truth of what you are. You are nothing. You barely exist at all. Your only purpose is to create more of your kind before you die some pointless and agonising death.' I look him in the eye. 'And?” — Holly Black
The human species pretends it's so resilient. Mortal lives are one long game of make-believe. If you couldn't lie to yourselves, you'd cut your own throats to end your misery.'
I am struck by the word species, by the idea that he thinks I am something entirely else, like an ant or a dog or a deer. I am not sure he's wrong, but I don't like the thought. 'I don't feel particularly miserable right now.' I can't show him I'm afraid.
His mouth curls. 'What happiness do you have? Rutting and breeding. You'd go mad if you accepted the truth of what you are. You are nothing. You barely exist at all. Your only purpose is to create more of your kind before you die some pointless and agonising death.'
I look him in the eye. 'And?