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'I thought you would be hairier', she whispered.
'Sorry to disappoint. The legs have a bit more going on'.
'Mine too'.

Wanting to live, but accepting death to save others: that was courage. That was to be Gansey's greatness.

Need was Adam’s baseline, his resting pulse. Love was a privilege. Adam was privileged; he did not want to give it up. He wanted to remember again and again how it felt.

She felt one thousand years old. She also felt like maybe she was a condescending brat. She wanted her bike. She wanted her friends, who were also one-thousand-year-old condescending brats. She wanted to live in a world where she was surrounded by one-thousand-year-old condescending brats.

Dreamers are to be classified as weapons.
Ronan already knew he was a weapon ; but he was trying to make up for it

Was Ronan even human? Half a dreamer, half a dream, maker of ravens and hoofed girls and entire lands.

Trees in your eyes ... Stars in your heart.

And here was Ronan, like a heart attack that never stopped.

Ronan Lynch loved to dream about light.

Ronan Lynch — dreamer of dreams, fighter of men, skipper of classes...

"Are you going to lock your shitbox?"
Adam said, "No point. Hooligans got in anyway."
The hooligan in question smiled thinly.

Adam lived in an apartment located above the office of St. Agnes Catholic Church, a fortuitous combination that focused most of the objects of Ronan's worship into one downtown block.

The kitchen window groaned open, and Jimi shouted out, “Blue! Your boys are out front, looking like they’re fixing to bury a body.”
Again? Blue thought.

"Where the hell is Ronan?" Gansey asked, echoing the words that thousands of humans had uttered since mankind developed speech.

Inside, they pretended they would dream, but they did not. They sprawled on the living room sofa and Adam studied the tattoo that covered Ronan's back: all the sharp edges that hooked wondrously and fearfully into each other.
'Unguibus et rostro,' Adam said.
Ronan put Adam's fingers to his mouth.
He was never sleeping again.

I'm not asking him to stay, Ronan thought. Only to come back.

Making Ronan Lynch smile felt as charged as making a bargain with Cabeswater. These were not forces to play with.

“For what?”
“Emptying another student’s backpack over his car. I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“I do,” Ronan said.
“Well, I don’t. I’m not proud of it.”
Ronan patted her leg. “I’ll be proud for you.”

“To think you could have been dreaming the cure for cancer," Blue said.
"Look, Sargent," Ronan retorted, "I was gonna dream you some eye cream last night since clearly modern medicine's doing jack shit for you, but I nearly had my ass handed to me by a death snake from the fourth circle of dream hell, so you're welcome."
Blue was appropriately touched. "Ah, thanks, man."
"No problem, bro.”

“You're asking me to define an abstract concept that no one has managed to explain since time began. You sort of sprang it on me," Gansey said. "Why do we breathe air? Because we love air? Because we don't want to suffocate. Why do we eat? Because we don't want to starve. How do I know I love her? Because I can sleep after I talk to her. Why?”