He felt the loyalty we feel to unhappiness - the sense that is where we really belong.

It is the storytellers task to elicit sympathy and a measure of understanding for those who lie outside the boundaries of State approval.

For God's sake stop making people in your image. Harry was real. He wasn't just your hero and my lover. He was Harry. He was in a racket. He did bad things. What about it? He was the man we knew.

Morality comes with the sad wisdom of age, when the sense of curiosity has withered.

You needn't be so scared. Love doesn't end. Just because we don't see each other.

The world doesn't make any heroes anymore.

They can print statistics and count the populations in hundreds of thousands, but to each man a city consists of no more than a few streets, a few houses, a few people. Remove those few and a city exists no longer except as a pain in the memory, like a pain of an amputated leg no longer there.