Anything that doesn't take years of your life and drive you to suicide hardly seems worth doing.

Life is brief and to have to spend every day of it doing what somebody else wants you to do is not the way to live it.

There was nothin to set a man's mind at ease like wakin up in the morning and not havin to decide who you were.

Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence.

If there's one thing on this planet you don't look like it's a bunch of good luck walkin around.

He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the words and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.

He imagined the pain of the world to be like some formless parasitic being seeking out the warmth of human souls wherein to incubate and he thought he knew what made one liable to its visitations. What he had not known was that it was mindless and so had no way to know the limits of those souls and what he feared was that there might be no limits.