Watchmen

If God saw what any of us did that night, he didn't seem to mind.

Miracles. Events with astronomical odds of occurring...like oxygen turning into gold. I've longed to witness such an event, and yet I neglect that in human coupling millions upon millions of cells compete to create life...for generation after generation...until finally, your mother loves a man Edward Blake, the Comedian, a man she has every reason to hate...and out of that contradiction, against unfathomable odds...it's you. Only you. That emerged. To distill so specific a form... from all that chaos is like turning air into gold. A miracle.

When you walk down the street in a city dying of rabies...past the human cockroaches...talking about their heroin and child pornography...do you really feel normal?

We're all puppets, Laurie. I'm just a puppet who can see the strings.

— Blake, she was pregnant. You gunned her down.
— Yeah, that's right. Pregnant woman. Gunned her down. Bang. And y'know what? You watched me. You could've changed the gun into steam or the bullets into mercury or the bottle into snowflakes! (...) You really don't give a damn about human beings, do you.

In my opinion, the existence of life is a highly overrated phenomenon.

Miracles, by their definition, are meaningless. Only what can happen does happen.

No time for friends? Only our enemies leave roses.

My father was a watchmaker. He abandoned it when Einstein discovered that time is relative.

"Edward Blake. Sixty-seven years old. Six-two, a solid 225. Guy was built like a linebacker."
"Yeah, I saw the body. For a guy his age, he was in terrific shape."
"You mean apart from being dead?"

"What happened to the American dream?"
"What happened to the American dream? It came true! You're looking at it."