People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night.

A shrewd person would one day start a religion based on coincidence, if he hasn't already, and make a million.

Do people still shoot at presidents? I thought there were more stimulating targets.' (20)

Everything is barely weeks. Everything is days. We have minutes to live.

The novel is the dream release, the suspension of reality that history needs to escape its own brutal confinements.

A dead afternoon in a dark bar was not the worst of fates.

The genius of the primitive mind is that it can render human helplessness in noble and beautiful ways.