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384 pages, Hardcover
First published September 8, 2026
‘Exiles and outcasts don’t have electricity—the guardians cull them ruthlessly—She was an exile—In love with the sinful—bones. Always had been—I made a promise; I must keep it.’
'‘We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent.'’
‘The guardians—are made of both machine and flesh—As the world was ending around the, those oldizens who had the most power sought a way to survive the collapse—and left the rest of the people to die. Instead of repenting, they asked their thinking machines to design a way to allow them, and only them, to continue to enjoy the luxuries of the—old ways—They were ticks designed to suck out the last of the world’s blood—Pilots weren’t enlightened. They were the most selfish oldizens of all.’
‘—renews itself by feeding upon the dead, survives in a poisoned and depleted world by consuming the residue of the past. The world of the oldizens was too toxic, too infected by plagues—the selfishness of people who could not see beyond the span of a season, much less the duration of generations. They choke the lungs of the world—defiled the flesh with gaping scars—prized the Now over the Evermore.’
‘‘You are the best decision I’ve ever made in my life. (They) said it was selfish of me to save a baby with no connection to us, to put the whole village at risk when we didn’t know why you had been abandoned—But I asked her, how could I be the selfish one when they were willing to watch someone die?’’
‘‘They are terrified of you because you love to know—to ask questions. You make them ashamed—Survive and never be anything except (you). Be curious. Be full of doubts—Promise me that.’’
‘Getting those cakes wasn’t easy—It’s a selfish act, she knows, to draw electricity on your own—The oldizens were selfish, vain, corrupt people. They thought they owned the world, coveted what wasn’t theirs, sought mastery over the universe— ‘Why are you living outside your village like some exiled beggar—And you dropped everything to be out here—wandering in the wilderness with a stranger. Who does that unless there’s a good reason?’’
‘(If you refuse, you’ll simply die and be consigned to oblivion, absorbed as mere meat—You cannot change the way the world is, only accept it. Come, be selfish. Be with those you love. Be with me. It would be so easy to give in, to be a servant) But that’s not a story that makes any sense. Not a story that feels true—There must be meaning to this, all of this. To believe otherwise, to accept, to not even try—is the only thing that is truly selfish—She turns and—refuses to concede, the one and only question that matters: What will it take to awaken the soul?’
‘She knows these words—knows—by heart—she knows the voice—a dance of machine and flesh, of the fall of empires—Docility is our only desirable quality. We tell ourselves that this is the best of all possible worlds until no other story is possible—But for the exiles, the outcasts, the rebels, their living minds are—valuable—spirits—‘Can you really watch them die and do nothing?’’
‘—she recites,—brings back to life a silent chorus, an invisible battalion. She’s—absolutely terrified, but she doesn’t regret it, any of it. The armies of those I love—charge them full with the charge of the soul.’
“I’ve been focused on how humans are being remade to be more like machines, but I haven’t considered the possibility that machines are also being constructed to be more like humans—disposable, powerless, fungible. There’s always a younger one willing to work for less, a newer model ready to take the place of the old. Funny how the logic of efficiency and productivity always leads here.”
“Each of us wears masks: one for our husband; another for our children; one for relatives who insert vacation videos into our feeds to collect claps; another for clients who expect us to be cool, calculating, eyes on the prize. Maybe there is nothing to this “self” we prize so much except the totality of this collection of masks. Or maybe there is some essential thing beneath the layers of masks, a beating heart, raw, bloody, vulnerable, yearning to connect, hungering to know where we come from and whither we go. That’s what you see when you peer through the seams and cracks in the masks, when you punch through the defenses we erect against reality, and searing emotion erupts. We treat such outbursts with scorn and mistrust. We think to be human is to be inhuman. How sad. So I would like to say: be kind to yourself, to those imperfections you detect. Who knows but that we’re all merely idols for a deeper, inarticulate soul that expresses itself only faintly, like tremors in the crystalline spheres.”
“Because I thought I had all the time in the world, I ended up not doing anything at all. I had wasted my life because I was afraid to give up choices, and I allowed my life to become plastinated, like a silkworm in her cocoon. All over the world, life went on forever, but people were not happier. People did not grow old together; they did not grow together at all. Married couples changed their vows, and it was no longer death that parted them, but boredom.”
“Not all watches require gears or pendulums or trembling crystals or sweeping hands bending the flight of the arrow of time into a circle. A watch can also just be a record of the progress of causality, an expanding graveyard of dead time. For this is what the End Watch is really measuring: our seemingly unwavering faith in the idea that taking time from others can be a good thing, that the killing hand can be humane, that inventing death, the absence of time, is something that we can justify. Disc by disc, act by act, the End Watch tracks our own progress—or lack thereof—toward the end of the arc of history.”