Atlas Six Quotes

The problem with knowledge, is its inexhaustible craving. the more of it you have, the less you feel you know

they were binary stars, trapped in each other’s gravitational field and easily diminished without the other’s opposing force

The moral of this story is: Beware the man who faces you unarmed. If in his eyes you are not the target, then you can be sure you are the weapon.

Really, there was nothing more dangerous than a woman who knew her own worth.

A flaw of humanity,” said Parisa, shrugging. “The compulsion to be unique, which is at war with the desire to belong to a single identifiable sameness.

The day you are not a fire,” he said, “is the day the earth will fall still for me.

Knowledge is carnage. You can’t have it without sacrifice.

We are the gods of our own universes, aren't we? Destructive ones.

If not for her, Nico might not have noticed most of the things he did, and probably vice versa. A uniquely upsetting curse, really, how little he knew how to exist when she wasn’t there.

I know exactly what shape she takes up in the universe,' he pleaded in explanation. 'If anyone can recognize her, it's me.

we are empty and trying to fill, lighting ourselves on fire just to prove that we are normal—that we are ordinary. That we, like anything, can burn

Depending who viewed it, Persephone had either been stolen or she had run from Demeter. Either way, she made herself queen.

Funny how that worked; the innocent fragility of being human. There were so many ways to break and so few of them heroic or noble.

You're a fire hazard, Rhodes," he said. "So stop apologizing for the damage and just let the fucker burn.

It was the kind of look that reminded him she’d set him on fire the first time she’d met him without even batting an eye. He’d like her more if she did it more often.

Don’t envy me, Reina,” she advised softly, turning to say it in Reina’s ear. “Fear me.

The problem with knowledge, is it's inexhaustible craving. the more of it you have, the less you feel you know

You don’t have to be sorry for existing, you know,

The world was mostly entropy and chaos; magic, then, was order, because it was control.

What are we celebrating?” “Our fragile mortality,” Tristan said. “The inevitability that we will descend into chaos and dust.

I’ve got you, Rhodes. From here on, I swear.

To enslave an individual troubles your consciences, Archivist, but to enslave a clone is no more troubling than owning the latest six-wheeler ford, ethically. Because you cannot discern our differences, you assume we have none. But make no mistake: even same-stem fabricants cultured in the same wombtank are as singular as snowflakes.

We’re all starving, but not everyone is doing it correctly. Some people are taking too much, making themselves sick, and it kills them. The excess is poison; even food is a poison to someone who’s been deprived. Everything has the capacity to turn toxic. It’s easy, so fucking easy to die, so the ones who make themselves something are the same ones who learn to starve correctly.

She made devastation look like riches, like jewels.

There is a difference between what we are capable of and how we choose to use it.

There was nothing more dangerous than a woman who knew her own worth.

People who lined up to see the Mona Lisa typically couldn’t name the paintings hanging nearby, and there was nothing wrong with that.

Many people incorrectly assume time to be a steady incline, a measured arc of growth and progress, but when history is written by the victors the narrative can often misrepresent that shape.

Ambition was such a dirty word, so tainted, but she had it. She was enslaved by it. There was so much ego to the concept of fate, but she needed to cling to it. She needed to believe she was meant for enormity; that the fulfillment of a destiny could make for the privilege of salvation, even if it didn't feel that way right now.

Nothing anyone sees is real; only how they perceive it.

Money couldn’t buy happiness, but nothing could buy happiness, so at least money could buy everything else.

You know why you don’t understand me?” Parisa answered Reina’s thoughts, stepping closer to lower her voice. “Because you think you’ve figured me out. You think you’ve met me before, other versions of women like me, but you have no idea what I am. You think my looks are what make me? My ambitions? You can’t begin to know the sum of my parts, and you can stare all you like, but you won’t see a damn thing until I show you.

We all have our own curses. Our own blessings.” Callum’s smile faltered. “We are the gods of our own universes, aren’t we? Destructive ones.

It was the kind of look that reminded him she’d set him on fire the first time she’d met him without even batting an eye. He’d like her more if she did it more often.

More interesting than the game is always the players, you know.

Men, conceptually, are canceled,” Libby said to her knees. “This Society? Founded by men, I guarantee it. Kill someone for initiation? A man’s idea. Totally male.

And so where there had once been six were now, irreversibly, one.

That was the distasteful thing about villains, really. Not the manner in which they went about their business, which was certainly gruesome and morally corrupt, but the fact that they desired things so intensely.

Gideon, for fuck’s sake, I’m rich and extremely handsome,” Nico growled. “Do you think I have my own problems? No, I do not, so let me have yours. Put me to use, I beg you.

There is nothing so destructive as thought, and especially not one that can never be rescinded.

Every single one of us is missing something. We are all too powerful, too extraordinary, and don't you see it's because we're riddled with vacancies? We are empty and trying to fill, lighting ourselves on fire just to prove that we are normal - that we are ordinary. That we, like anything, can burn.

If I were going to ask someone for help, Rhodes, it would have been you.

She was afraid, always, except when she was proving herself.

The world was filled poets who thought a woman’s love had unmade them.

Beware the man who faces you unarmed. If in his eyes you are not the target, then you can be sure you are the weapon.

There is no fate so final as betrayal. Trust, once dead, cannot be resurrected.

The promise of your talents is nothing compared to whatever you ultimately prove to be.

All the knowledge the world possessed existed at their fingertips, and all they had to do in return was continue to nurture it, to make it grow.

In Callum’s mind, human history was interesting because of humans, not science. Because humans were idiots who turned the elements of life into a weapon.

We study the realm of consciousness because we understand that to decide something, to weigh a cost and accept its consequences, is to forcibly alter the world in some tangible way. That is magic as true and as real as any other.

Libby was a hero. Parisa was a villain. Their goals were overarching, appositional. Nico and Reina were so impartial and self-interested as to be wholly negligible. Tristian was a soldier, he would follow where he was most persuasively led. It was Callum who was an assassin.

The trouble with knowledge, the idiosyncrasy of its particular addiction, was that it was not the same as other types of vice. Because knowledge was not chemical, was not physical or hormonal or easily within reach, someone given a taste of omniscience could never be satisfied by the contents of a bare reality without it

No one here is good. Knowledge is carnage. You can’t have it without sacrifice.

A flaw of humanity: the compulsion to be unique, which is at war with the desire to belong to a single identifiable sameness.

But the moment we realize we can feel fulfilled without carrying the burdens of belonging to another—that we can experience rapture without being someone's other half, and therefore beholden to their weaknesses, to their faults and failures and many insufferable fractures—then we're free, aren't we?

People were such delicate little playthings.

Beware the man who faces you unarmed. If in his eyes you are not the target, then you can be sure you are the weapon.

Because the problem with knowledge, Miss Rhodes, is its inexhaustible craving. The more of it you have, the less you feel you know.

He finds the monsters we keep locked away and sets them loose, so why would I ever want him to see mine?

In Reina’s mind, they were binary stars, trapped in each other’s gravitational field and easily diminished without the other’s opposing force. She wasn’t at all surprised when she discovered one was right-handed (Nico) and the other left (Libby).

Theoretically, men are a disaster. As a concept, I unequivocally reject them.

All men can love a forbidden thing, generally speaking, and in most cases knowledge is precisely that; lost knowledge even more so.

Don't let me wake up alone.

You resent privilege in all its forms, including your own, yet you show no desire to unmake the present system. I think someday you will awaken to your own conviction, and when you do, something will compel you forward.

He’s just also very, um—” “Grumpy,” said Nico. “Well, I wouldn’t—” “He’s grumpy,” Nico repeated. “Varona, I’m trying t-” “He’s grumpy,” Nico said loudly. “Maybe he’s shy,” countered Libby, unconvincingly.

The freedom of endless choices wasn't meant for human minds.

A uniquely upsetting curse, really, how little he knew how to exist when she wasn’t there;

Maybe she wasn't a damsel in distress, but it still felt nice to anchor herself to something before casting herself into the unknown.

Oaks live for six hundred years. Two hundred to grow, two hundred to live, two hundred to die.

The problem with being a smart girl was being naturally curious.

Oh, it comforts him, really, not that he’ll ever admit it. Knowing the truth of my sordid nature only confirms Tristan’s deepest suspicions about humanity,” Parisa replied to Libby’s inner thoughts, catching her sidelong glance. “I’m confident Tristan could be stabbed mid-climax and still find the strength to groan out ‘I was right’ before succumbing to the cavernous embrace of death.

They’d had a knack for it from the beginning, a way of becoming the other’s beginning and end.

More interesting than the game is always the players, you know. Well, I suppose more accurately,” he amended, “the game is different depending on the players.

When one ecosystem fails, nature makes a new one. That’s how the species survives.

She was powerful on her own. She did not need his oversight. She did not want it.

Ambition was such a dirty word, so tainted, but she had it.

She needed to believe she was meant for enormity; that the fulfillment of a destiny could make for the privilege of salvation, even if it didn't feel that way right now.

It was a very feminine thing, to be both magical and saintly. Philanthropy could be worn like jewelry or cosmetics, glittering from the effervescence of their pores.

The problem with knowledge [...] is its inexhaustible craving. The more you have it, the less you feel you know. [...] Thus, men often go mad in search of it.

The compulsion to be unique, which is at war with the desire to belong to a single identifiable sameness.

Of course you get a say,' Libby corrected him. 'You can say, 'Libby, I love you and I support you,' or you can say something else.' She swallowed before adding, 'But believe me, Ezra, there are only two answers here. If you don't say one, you're saying the other.

She was so fundamentally altered that she couldn't remember what version of her had put herself into that relationship, into that life, or somehow into that shape, which she still looked and felt as is always had but wasn't anymore.

You are not accustomed to being desired, are you?” Callum prompted. Before Tristan could manage his surely uncomfortable reply, Callum clarified, “As a friend, I mean. As a person.” A pause. “As anything.

Maybe after a lifetime of being useless, Tristan simply wanted to be used.

Capitalism has a terrible tendency to abandon its principles altogether.

God demanded blood in almost every culture. Was magic any different?

The Libby Rhodes that Tristan knew was a collection of imperfections, a constellation of absentminded marks. Of things she tried to meticulously to hide, but never from him.

It's a very nice cage, but a cage nonetheless.

You don’t need to help me, Nico. You have a life, plans, a future— You should have all those things! Face it, a ticking clock isn’t the same as a future. You and your ticking clock, Gideon, that’s my future. That’s mine.

We are medians because we will never have enough," Callum said hoarsely. "We aren't normal; we are gods born with pain built in. We are incendiary beings and we are flawed, except the weaknesses we pretend to have are not our true weaknesses at all. We are not soft, we do not suffer impairment or frailty—we imitate it. We tell ourselves we have it. But our only real weakness is that we know we are bigger, stronger, as close to omnipotence as we can be, and we are hungry, we are aching for it. Other people can see their limits, Tristan, but we have none. We want to find our impossible edges, to close our fingers around constraints that don't exist, and that," Callum exhaled. "That is what will drive us to madness.

We study the realm of consciousness because we understand that to decide something, to weigh a cost and accept its consequences, is to forcibly alter the world in some tangible way. That is a magic as true and as real as any other.

Is not the worst tyranny that which perceives itself to be noble?

That was the peril of thought. Thoughts were so rarely dismissed once they’d been picked up and toyed with, and a mind successfully altered could rarely, if ever, revert. Worse we’re feelings. Feelings were never forgotten, even if their sources were.

You’ve been running a long time,” he murmured to her, brushing a loose curl from her cheek. “Poor thing.” He pulled her into an embrace, feeling the low swell of her misery greet him like a wave inside his chest. “You’ve been running for your life since the moment you were born.

Don’t you ever detest the necessity of emotional attachment?” Parisa murmured, the tips of her fingers brushing Libby’s throat before toying, idly, with the tips of her hair. “Men in particular are draining, they bleed us dry. They demand we carry their burdens, fix their ills. A man is constantly in search of a good woman, but what do they offer us in return?

You’re not better than me,” Nico replied perfunctorily. “But you’re looking for the wrong things. You’re looking for, I don’t know. The other pieces.” She made a face. “Other pieces of what?” “How should I know? Yourself, maybe.” He scoffed under his breath before oppressing her with “Anyway, there aren’t any other pieces, Rhodes. There’s nothing else. It’s just you.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Either you’re complete or you’re not. Stop looking. It’s right fucking there,” he informed her, snatching impatiently at her hand and half throwing it back into her chest. She glared at him and pulled out of his reach, vandalized. “Either it’s enough for you or nothing ever will be.” “What is this, a lecture?” “You’re a fire hazard, Rhodes,” he said. “So stop apologizing for the damage and just let the fucker burn.

I remembered that once, as a child, I was filled with wonder, that I had marveled at tri-folded science projects, encyclopedias, and road atlases. I left much of that wonder somewhere back in Baltimore. Now I had the privilege of welcoming it back like a long-lost friend, though our reunion was laced with grief; I mourned over all the years that were lost. The mourning continues. Even today, from time to time, I find myself on beaches watching six-year-olds learn to surf, or at colleges listening to sophomores slip from English to Italian, or at cafés seeing young poets flip though "The Waste Land," or listening to the radio where economists explain economic things that I could've explored in my lost years, mourning, hoping that I and all my wonder, my long-lost friend, have not yet run out of time, though I know that we all run out of time, and some of us run out of it faster.

One bright dusk, four, five, no, my God, six summers ago, I strolled along a Greenwich avenue of mature chestnuts and mock oranges in a state of grace. Those Regency residences number amount London's Costliest properties, but should you ever inherit one, dear Reader, sell it, don't live in it. Houses like these secrete some dark sorcery that transforms their owners into fruitcakes. One such victim, an ex-chief of Rhodesian polices, had, on the evening in question, written me a check as rotund as himself to edit and print his autobiography. My state of grace was thanks in part to this check, and in part to a 1983 Chablis from the Duruzoi vineyard, a magic potion that dissolves our myriad tragedies into mere misunderstandings.

You,” Gideon realized aloud, glaring at Nico. “You set up a ward against her without telling me, didn’t you?” “What? That’s crazy,” Nico said blandly. “Nico, you had no right—” Immediately, he gave up the (very weak) game. “That’s ridiculous, of course I did—” “—You can’t just interfere without telling me—” “—I was going to tell you; in fact, I’m sure I already did! It’s not my fault if you didn’t read the minutes closely—” “—for the last time, my mother is my problem, not yours—” That, of course, was met with a growl of frustration from Nico. “Haven’t you figured out by now that I want your problems?” Nico demanded, half shouting it, and thankfully, Gideon’s mouth snapped shut. “Your pain is my problem, you idiot prince. You little motherfucker.” Nico rubbed his temple wearily as Gideon’s lips twisted up, half laughing. “Don’t laugh. Don’t…don’t look at me, stop it. Stop it—” “What are these pet names, Nicky?” “Shut up. I’m angry.” “Why are you angry?” “Because you seem to think for some stupid reason that you should be handling everything on your own—” “—when really you should be handling it on your own, is that it?” Touché. The bastard. “Gideon, for fuck’s sake, I’m rich and extremely handsome,” Nico growled. “Do you think I have my own problems? No, I do not, so let me have yours. Put me to use, I beg you.” Gideon rolled his eyes. “You are,” he said, and exhaled. “unbearable.

But of course he was only being dramatic. He was not going to die. “You insufferable man-child. You idiot prince.” Her fondest derivative for him, or at least her most frequent. So much so it felt like something he might have accidentally colonized and put to use. “You are not going to do something so utterly unforgivable as to waste your talent and die, I won’t have it,” Libby informed him, jerking his shoulders upright. He would have mumbled I know that Rhodes shut up had he not been busy focusing on the task of not dying, and more specifically, on aiming what was currently oozing out of him, which was probably something he needed to survive. “You deplorable little Philistine,” Libby said. “What on earth were you thinking? No, don’t answer that,” she grumbled, shoving him none-too-gently so that his back rested against something hard, like the leg of a Victorian chair. “Just tell me what you’re doing so I can help you—even though I ought to defenestrate you from that window instead,” she muttered in an afterthought, ostensibly to herself.