You know, the usual story. Once upon a time I was playing my harp by a spring when a fairy appeared out of nowhere, handed me a Beretta Model 92, and told me to shoot the white rabbit over there for target practice.

I’ve built a wall around me, never letting anybody inside and trying not to venture outside myself

What's really important here," I whispered loudly to myself,"is not the big things other people have thought up, but the small things you, yourself have

This person, this self, this me, finally, was made somewhere else. Everything had come from somewhere else, and it would all go somewhere else. I was nothing but a pathway for the person known as me.

I'm a coward when it comes to matters of the heart. That is my fatal flaw.

Did you ever see anyone shot by a gun without bleeding?

There's a special feeling you get on a veranda that you just can't get anywhere else.