Quotes from Douglas Preston

I would prefer to work with somebody comfortable with cutting-edge tools and theories—and unlikely to discard possible results simply because they don't follow received wisdom.

He reminds me of Paul Revere's ride," the waitress said from behind the counter. "A little light in the belfry.

In his groundbreaking book Guns, Germs, and Steel, biologist Jared Diamond poses the question: Why did Old World diseases devastate the New World and not the other way around? Why did disease move in only one direction?* The answer lies in how the lives of Old World and New World people diverged after that cross-continental migration more than fifteen thousand years ago.

In 1680, the Indians rose up, killed four hundred settlers and dozens of padres, and drove the rest of the Spanish out of New Mexico. This was the Pueblo Revolt.

I pointed out that in no way could this be called an experiment. What were the objectives? Where was the control? What was the hypothesis? And I said he was naive to think there might not be any harm in it. This was not like raising a puppy.

It encourages us to develop evolution's greatest gift to us: our intellects. It instructs us to appreciate this life as fully as possible, because we will never have another. This, then, is my religion.

Finally, you'll tell the truth. I've read so many lies about the project I can hardly stand it. If this book can set the record straight—well, you'll be doing us a service. And I hope you won't mind if I turn on my own tape recorder while we talk. It isn't that I don't trust you. . .

Information is like electricity; it powers the light that allows us to see our way forward.

The Monster's crimes were so horrific that a mere man could not possibly have committed them. Satan, in the end, had to be invoked.

Hubris and science are incompatible.

I'm pretty much a 9-to-5 kind of guy. I usually get to work about 8 in the morning, and I work until 4 or 5, and sometimes I work on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Pretty much I keep the same hours as an accountant or clerk or whatever.

We all have a Monster within; the difference is in degree, not in kind.

The wise and good are outnumbered a thousand to one by the brutal and stupid.

You think of yourself as an "individual person", with a unique and separate mind. You think you are born and you think you die. All your life you feel separate and alone. Sometimes desperately so. You fear death because you fear the loss of individuality. All this is an illusion. You, he, she, those things around you living or not, the stars and galaxies, the empty space in between- these are not distinct, separate objects. All is fundamentally entangled.

One can reach the gates of hell just as easily by short steps as by large.

I have found that liars in the end communicate more truth than do truth tellers." "How's that?" "Because truth is the safest lie.

My dear Vincent

A human being creates complexity by writing a novel on the surface of paper; a weather system creates complexity by writing waves on the surface of an ocean. What is the difference between the information carried in the words of a novel and the information carried on the waves of the sea? Listen, and the waves will speak, and someday, I tell you, you will write your thoughts on the surface of the sea.

People need history in order to know themselves, to build a sense of identity and pride, continuity, community, and hope for the future.

Where are you from, Mr. Pendergast? Can't quite place the accent." "New Orleans." "What a coincidence! I went there for Mardi Gras once." "How nice for you. I myself have never attended." Ludwig paused, the smile frozen on his face, wondering how to steer the conversation onto a more pertinent topic.

I have often found it true that the louder a person speaks, the less they have to say.

Dr. Albert Frock: Well, how goes the gradual extinction of the human race, Lieutenant? Lt. Vincent D'Agosta: I'm doing what I can to keep it orderly.

A strange, pale figure emerged—Pendergast?—and she felt herself suddenly in his arms, lifted bodily as if she were a child again, her head cradled against his chest. She felt his shoulders began to convulse, faintly, regularly, almost as if he was weeping. But that was, of course, impossible, as Pendergast would never cry.

Most people are about as aware of their surroundings as a sea cucumber.