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?
— 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.
We're all puppets, Laurie. I'm just a puppet who can see the strings.
Miracles, by their definition, are meaningless. Only what can happen does happen.
— Is that bean juice?
— Yeah, human bean juice.
"Those were great times, huh, Rorschach? What happened?"
"You quit."
"What happened to the American dream?"
"What happened to the American dream? It came true! You're looking at it."
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