So what happens when the camera is finally invented?
Handley let his breath escape in a whoosh. "The artists are out of jobs?"
"Wrong. The artist simply have to learn how to do things that the camera can't. The artist had to stop being a recorder and start being an interpreter. That's when expressionism was born."

I wish I could change it all. I wish I could.
But I can’t.
Dammit.
Now I know what it’s like to have an indelible past—one that can’t be erased and changed at will. It’s frustrating. It’s maddening. And it makes me wish I had been more careful and thoughtful.

It was not an unfamiliar sensation, but it was strange to feel it in the daytime. Mostly, it was a nighttime visitor, an ever-gentle gnawing at the back of the head that had to be always guarded against, lest its realization sweep forth with a cold familiar rush. It was the sudden startling glimpse over the edge—the realization that death is inevitable, that it happens to everyone, that it would happen to me too; that someday, someday, the all-important I (the center of the whole thing) would cease to exist. Would stop. Would end. Would no longer be. Nothing. Nobody. Finished. Death.

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You aren’t really jumping through time, that’s the illusion; what you’re actually doing is leaving one timestream and jumping to—maybe even creating—another. The second one is identical to the one you just left, including all of the changes you made in it—up to the instant of your appearance. At that moment, simply by the fact of your existence in it, the second timestream becomes a different timestream. You are the difference.

They say that killing is a mortal sin, that it is against the laws of God. If that is true—and I know now that it must be—if that is true, then every man who has ever taken a human life has been, from that moment on, damned for eternity. No matter how many men or nations say that it is all right for a man to take up arms against an enemy, it does not change that one basic fact—killing is a mortal sin.
And every one of those simple white markers we had stood among represents a soul condemned.
A nation had sentenced her sons to damnation so that she might survive.
There’s no such thing as a “moral war.”

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Whatever our purpose, we probably aren't fulfilling it. We're not functioning as we should.
He shrugged at her. "How should we function?"
"Like human beings." She said it righteously.
"Isn't that what the human race is already doing? Functioning like human beings—squabbling with each other, killing each other, hating...?"
"That's not human."
"Oh, but it is. It's very human."
"Well, it's not what human should be."
"Now that's a different story. You're not talking about what people are, but what you want them to be."
"Well, maybe we should be what we aren't because what we are now isn't good enough. Maybe we should be dismantled."
"I don't think we have to worry too much about somebody up there doing it—we're doing it ourselves."