sarcasm and jokes were often the bottle in which clinical depressives sent out their most plangent screams for someone to care and help them.

This is so American, man: either make something your God and cosmos and then worship it, or else kill it.

I have now seen sucrose beaches and water a very bright blue. I have seen an all-red leisure suit with flared lapels. I have smelled suntan lotion spread over 2,100 pounds of hot flesh. I have been addressed as "Mon" in three different nations. I have seen 500 upscale Americans dance the Electric Slide. I have seen sunsets that looked computer-enhanced. I have (very briefly) joined a conga line.

‎Who would die for this chance to be fed this death of pleasure with spoons, in their warm homes, alone, unmoving?

Fiction is about what it is to be a human being.

I'd like to be the sort of person who can enjoy things at the time, instead of having to go back in my head and enjoy them.

The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.