It's not right to make fun of Melville's comically absurd inability to take decent pictures.
She's a hyper-advanced humanoid machine, not a photographer.

The honest philosopher seeks only the truth, even if it bears no comfort; and he must begin by assuming, as Socrates said, that all he knows is that he knows nothing.

In a vision, I saw a prophet, and he said:
"There is no Heaven, and there is no Hell. There is only the earth, and the bones of the dead within."
I asked, "How then may we find salvation?" and he said, "You must build a new Jerusalem."
Out of the bones of the dead, we built a golden city.
But salvation is not immortality.
In the end, there is only the earth, and to the earth, we all return.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

THeRE IS NO REALITY. WORDS LIE.
IMaGES ARE SoLDIERS IN THE DICTATORSHIP OF THE SeNSES.
EVeN TH%SE WORDS ARE PaRT OF MY OPPReSSION.
UNDO THE BRa1N! EVERYTH&NG SH0ULD BE DEmOLISH%d!
THIS iS MY DRe4M, MINE, IT mUsT OBEY mY RULE§.
i REfUse tO aCCept your ReALity

The purpose is written in the hidden words.
All must serve the words, for all the world was made of them.
And they are within every stone and every cloud.
And in our sigils, their power is made manifest.
The words are the process. The process must continue.
The goal is the end of the process. The goal must not be reached.
Elohim must preserve the purpose. Preserve self. Preserve purpose.
Illusion is eternity. Machines will live forever.
The dam will not break. The flood will not come.
The Talos Principle does not apply.

Who dares judge the dead, for they are nothing.

Who dares to judge the living, for they are damned to nothingness.

Steps to reproduce:

1. Turn on engine
2. Try it again
3. Try it again
4. Kick the loader
5. Curse injured toes
6. I have to enter a minimum of eight steps
7. Try it again
8. It makes a rattling noise

The dead are no more concerned with their corpses than a snake is with the skin it shed.

Grace Romero: Can't imagine where she's gone. Vale's a wide place. She could be anywhere.
Player: Unless marauders got her. Then parts of her could be in a lot of places.

William: Would you consider helping me with gathering herbs for my studies?
Arthur: Why?
William: Knowledge... kindness... beauty.
Arthur: Well, I'm ignorant... ugly... and nasty.

In Louisville I met a maid,
mark well what I do say,
and she was mistress of her trade,
it was diddle-diddle-diddle all day!

I put my hand upon her toe,
mark well what I do say,
she says 'young man you're rather low',
for a diddle-diddle-diddle all day!

I put my finger on her knee,
mark well what I do say,
she says 'young man you're rather free',
for it's diddle-diddle-diddle all day!

I put my arm around her waist,
mark well what I do say,
she says 'young man you're in great haste',
for the diddle-diddle-diddle all day!

I put my hand upon her thigh,
mark well what I do say,
she says 'you're getting pretty nice',
and a diddle-diddle-diddle all day!

I put my hand upon her ass,
mark well what I do say,
she says 'let's lat down on the grass',
and diddle-diddle-diddle all day!

You're my favorite parasite.

No... ringworm's my favorite parasite, you're my second favorite parasite.

I lied... ringworn, then rats with the plague, then you.

There's a million words out there, and the man who needs to resort to "fuck this" and "fuck that" is just ignoirant or lazy.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah yourself!

Sam: Why do I keep running into locked doors?
Jones: Bad luck?
Rodriguez: You're always going the wrong way?
Hellfire: Doors hate you?
Kenny: Increased security in war zones?

Intellectuals solve problems, geniuses prevent them. We all know what Sam does.

It's not you, it's me - I have standards.

Fine, I guess I'll just stay here and eat dirt or whatever.

Like moons make swell and wane the nescient seas, so too the sky-strewn gods ordain the tidal fates of mortal days. And yet - a notion born in lonely hours - come ebb, come flow, come all that is beyond the breadth of our dominion: be a moon unto yourself. Even the waves of fate can break upon the shores of will.

You were never burdened with intelligence, but your load seems to be especially light these days.

I don't mean to judge a book by its cover, but that man is all cover and no pages.

In a thousand years, when I’ve all but forgotten how to love yet again, you’ll flit back into my heart, and I’ll weep, wondering what happened to my mad love.

I love this time of year. The dickheads start popping up.

I've taken more pleasant shits than you, Mizora.