Beauty was the promise of happiness, not happiness itself; and the anticipated world was often more rich than anything real. - Kim Stanley Robinson

For of course it was impossible that she was doing it all without cause. That was the nature of power; when you had it no one was ever again simply a friend, simply a lover. Inevitably they all wanted things you could give them—if nothing else, the prestige of friendship with the powerful.

Very little detective work, he was noticing, could be accomplished before a crime occurred.

So that was the past. There and not there. His whole life. If nothing was real but this moment, Planck instant after Planck instant, an unimaginably thin membrane of becoming between past and future—his life—what then was it, so thin, so without any tangible past or future: a blaze of color.