It really is better to be lucky than to be good.

I had killed our careful relationship by driving my tongue through its heart and pushing it off a cliff.

In its own way the kiss had been an act of murder.

I am not shy about admitting my modest talents. For example, I am happy to admit that I am better than average at clever remarks, and I also have a flair for getting people to like me. But to be perfectly fair to myself, I am ever-ready to confess my shortcomings, too, and a quick round of soul-searching forced me to admit that I had never been any good at all at breathing water. As I hung there from the seat belt, dazed and watching the water pour in and swirl around my head, this began to seem like a very large character flaw.

I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling.

What do you want a clock for?” “To find out what time it is,” I said. “I think that’s the usual purpose.

I had become a perfect fake human, saying the stupid and pointless things that humans say to each other all day long.