He knew everything about literature except how to enjoy it.

If character is destiny, the good are damned.

Someone had to do something sometime. Every victim was a culprit, every culprit a victim, and somebody had to stand up sometime to try to break the lousy chain of inherited habit that was imperiling them all.

The question is: what is a sane man to do in an insane society?

I am miracle ingredient Z-247. I'm immense. I'm a real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness, three-fisted humdinger. I'm a bona fide supraman.

Well, he died. You don't get any older than that.

Death to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective.