Certainly I've never tried to imagine what the future will hold. It's a hopeless endeavor to try to do such a thing.

I long for the days of disorder. I want them back, the days when I was alive on the earth, rippling in the quick of my skin, heedless and real. I was dumb-muscled and angry and real. This is what I long for, the breach of peace, the days of disarray when I walked real streets and did things slap-bang and felt angry and ready all the time, a danger to others and a distant mystery to myself.

Doesn't our knowledge of death make life more precious?' What good is a preciousness based on fear and anxiety? It's an anxious quivering thing

It's impossible to write about the Kennedy assassination and its aftermath without taking note of twenty-five years of paranoia which has collected around that event.

Was she naked?" Lasher said. "To the waist," Cotsakis said. "From which direction?" Lasher said.

Too much has been forgotten in the name of memory.

I am ashamed every day, and more ashamed the next.