All the travelin I ever done is going around the coffeepot looking for the handle.

A spinning coin, still balanced on its rim, may fall in either direction.

You know, one of the tragedies of real life is that there is no background music.

What we fear we often rage against.

Ordinary parties, he thought, were subtle games of sexual and social badminton.

I wish I knew how to quit you.

For if Jack Buggit could escape from the pickle jar, if a bird with a broken neck could fly away, what else might be possible? Water may be older than light, diamonds crack in hot goat's blood, mountaintops give off cold fire, forests appear in mid-ocean, it may happen that a crab is caught with the shadow of a hand on its back, and that the wind be imprisoned in a bit of knotted string. And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery.