Quotes About Transformation

We were meant to be focused on our purpose, and "anything personal should be left behind." Names belonged to where we had come from, not to who we were while embedded in Area X.

I remember thinking that I might be talking to the animals by the next morning. I might be rolling in the dirt, laughing hysterically under that merciless blue sky. Or I might find the brightness rising curious out of the top of my head, like a periscope—independent and lively, with nothing left beneath it but a husk.

it could take days before you knew that a Vegan round was germinating inside you, and weeks before your body began to blossom into death.

E' così che la follia del mondo prova a impossessarti di te: penetrando dall'esterno, costringendoti a vivere nella sua realtà.

Ci sarà un fuoco che conosce il tuo nome.

The hegemony of what was real had been altered, or broken, forever.

Be', dipende dai soffitti alti, no? Vedi cose che non esistono. E le cose che vedi sembrano altre cose. Un uccello può essere un pipistrello. Un pipistrello può essere una busta di plastica che vola. Così va il mondo. Vedi una cosa per un'altra. Uccelli-foglie. Pipistrelli-uccelli. Ombre fatte di luci. Rumori accidentali che sembrano più significativi. È sempre così, dovunque vai.

Neanche la sua bellezza può essere compresa e, quando intravedi la bellezza nella desolazione, qualcosa dentro di te cambia. La desolazione cerca di colonizzarti

Writing, for me, is like trying to restart an engine that has rested for years, silent and rusting, in an empty lot—choked with water and dirt, infiltrated by ants and spiders and cockroaches. Vines and weeds shoved into it and sprouting out of it. A kind of coughing splutter, an eruption of leaves and dust, a voice that sounds a little like mine but is not the same as it was before;

The biologist was coming down the hillside. In all her glory and monstrosity.

A ghost bird might be a hawk in one place, a crow in another, depending on the context. The sparrow that shot up into the blue sky one morning might transform mid-flight into an osprey the next. This was the way of things here. There were no reasons so mighty that they could override the desire to be in accord with the tides and the passage of seasons and the rhythms underlying everything around me.

Rachel, Rachel—what am I?" The strobe of colors felt like a smile or a flash of relief. "That's a tough one, Borne. I don't know what you are." "Am I a squirrel?" "I don't think so." "Am I a fish?" "Definitely not!" "Am I a Ã¢â'¬Â¦ fox?! Secretly raised as a common animal. But really a royal fox. Most royal of foxes. First among fox-kind." I

Rachel, Rachel—what am I?" The strobe of colors felt like a smile or a flash of relief. "That's a tough one, Borne. I don't know what you are." "Am I a squirrel?" "I don't think so." "Am I a fish?" "Definitely not!" "Am I a Ã¢â'¬Â¦ fox?! Secretly raised as a common animal. But really a royal fox. Most royal of foxes. First among fox-kind." I shook my head. "No, not a fox.

Jeff VanderMeer

Would that not be the final humbling of the human condition? That the trees and birds, the fox and the rabbit, the wolf and the deer Ã¢â'¬Â¦ reach a point at which they do not even notice us, as we are transformed.

Interferivamo con tutto, non lasciavamo stare nulla [...]. Non potevamo accettare che ci fosse qualcosa di intatto. [...] Non li lasciavamo stare neanche dopo la morte.

What occurs after revelation and paralysis? Either death or a slow and certain thawing.

As I adjusted to the light, the Crawler kept changing at a lightning pace, as if to mock my ability to comprehend it. It was a figure within a series of refracted panes of glass. It was a series of layers in the shape of an archway. It was a great sluglike monster ringed by satellites of even odder creatures. It was a glistening star. My eyes kept glancing off of it as if an optic nerve was not enough

What was a person but someone who turned monstrous, anyway?

My voice had a rasp to it, then. I wasn't yet comfortable talking human. My voice had a rasp, and I gazed upon the bison head on the wall and my voice became raspier still. I gazed upon the mossy rock imported from another country, the water feature in the house, and wanted only to return to all fours and drink from the pond. To gaze at the reflection and remember who I was, not who I had become

When the memory became too faint, too abstract, it would transform itself into an old rotator cuff injury, a pain so thin yet so sharp that he could trace the line of it all the way across his shoulder blade and down his back.

We lack the analogies' was itself somehow deficient as a diagnosis, linguists burning up during re-entry into the Earth's atmosphere after encountering Area X.

Whatever we think of the border, it's important to recognise it as a limitation of Area X.

I lay there, panting, as the skin of Borne around me, the flesh of Borne, went prickly and rigid again and the cilia that rubbed up against me turned into tiny mouths that screamed into my clothes, arms and legs and hair. Borne was screaming silently into his own body because he could not scream on the outside.