If the Good Lord made a mistake in us people it was in making us want to live when we’ve got the least excuse for it.

I told her the world was full of nice people. I'd have hated to try to prove it to her, but I said it, anyway.

If the Good Lord made a mistake in us people it was in making us want to live when we’ve got the least excuse for it.

It doesn't matter what answers you get if you ask the wrong questions.

In lots of books I read, the writer seems to go haywire every time he reaches a high point. He’ll start leaving out punctuation and running his words together and babble about stars flashing and sinking into a deep dreamless sea. And you can’t figure out whether the hero’s laying his girl or a cornerstone. I guess that kind of crap is supposed to be pretty deep stuff—a lot of the book reviewers eat it up, I notice. But the way I see it is, the writer is just too goddam lazy to do his job. And I’m not lazy, whatever else I am. I’ll tell you everything.

I'd been chasing females all my life, not paying no mind to the fact that whatever's got tail at one end has teeth at the other, and now I was getting chomped.

Then he laughed and she laughed. And quivering with the movement of the train, the dead man seemed to laugh too.