Men emerge pale from the little printing plant at four sharp, ghosts for an instant, blinking, until the outdoor light overcomes the look of constant indoor light clinging to them.

What we need is progress with an escape hatch.

The scissors cut the long-grown hair; The razor scrapes the remnant fuzz. Small-jawed, weak-chinned, big-eyed, I stare At the forgotten boy I was.

...hate suits him better than forgiveness. Immersed in hate, he doesn't have to do anything; he can be paralyzed, and the rigidty of hatred makes a kind of shelter for him.

What is the past, after all, but a vast sheet of darkness in which a few moments, pricked apparently at random, shine?

All men are mortal, and therefore all men are losers; our profoundest loyalty goes out to the failed.

One of the cool, chaste countries - Canada or Sweden.