When do you learn that the world, like any diner worth its salt, is open twenty-four hours a day?

Just about everybody has written a first novel that they throw away before writing their actual first novel.

Everyone tells you it's all right to cry, but not enough people say it's all right if you don't want people to know.

The Violins waltzed. The Cellos and Basses provided accompaniment. The Violas mourned their fate, while the Concertmaster showed off. The Flutes did bird imitations…repeatedly, and the reed instruments had the good taste to admire my jacket. The Trumpets held a parade in honor of our great nation, while the French Horns waxed nostalgic about something or other. The Trombones had too much to drink. The Percussion beat the band, and the Tuba stayed home playing cards with his landlady, the Harp, taking sips of warm milk a blue little cup. “But the Composer is still dead.

The hallway was lined with numbered doors, odd numbers on one side and even numbers on the other, and large ornamental vases, too large to hold flowers and too small to hold spies.

There is a pair of snakes who have learned to drive a car so recklessly that they would run you over in the street and never stop to apologize.

Hal is on his way." The nurse announced reentering the room.