American married life is the doormat to the whorehouse.

It is the hour of pearl—the interval between day and night when time stops and examines itself.

You are not a man anymore. You are a soldier. Your comfort is of no importance and your life isn't of much importance. Most of your orders will be unpleasant, but that's not your business. They should've trained you for this, and not for flower-strewn streets. They should have built your soul with truth, not led along with lies.

Failure is a state of mind. It's like one of those sand traps an ant lion digs. You keep sliding back. Takes one hell of a jump to get out of it.

And it never failed that during the dry years the people forgot about the rich years, and during the wet years they lost all memory of the dry years. It was always that way.

It is a common experience that a problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning after the committee of sleep has worked on it.

The quality of owning freezes you forever in "I," and cuts you off forever from the "we.