Someone ought to write a novel about me.

He tried to reconstruct the story in his mind, but it kept getting confused, bleeding into itself like watercolors.

Stories have a way of changing faces. They are unruly things, undisciplined, given to delinquency and the throwing of erasers. This is why we must close them up into thick, solid books, so they cannot get out and cause trouble.

You humans, you know, whoever built you sewed irony into your sinews.

Bad luck relies on absolutely perfect timing.

I’ve a devil of a habit for being right.

Oh, quit that. Blushing is for virgins and Christians.