When good Americans die, they go to Paris,' the ghost said, after taking a drag on a small cigarette. But you’re not dead. I suppose the question must be, are you good?

I wasn't entirely sure, but a polite John Pritkin might be a sign of the apocalypse.

Then you must be willing to fight," Mircea responded. "Life is not a gift, Raphael; it's a challenge. Rise to it!

You love me?" He just looked at me for a moment. And then he reared back his head and laughed, a rich, mellow sound, unreserved and unashamed. " No, not at all. I regularly battle gods for women I dislike!

Thank you, Captain Obvious." "I'm on the Senate," he reminded me. "It's Lord Obvious.

you gotta think it’s a waste of—” “Ray!” I glanced around, but there was nobody within earshot. “Well, excuse me if I’m not used to buying condoms for aliens,” he said more softly. “They’re not aliens.” “Well, they’re not human. I mean, they could have anything under those tunics, you know?

Poireaux vinaigrette aux grains de caviar.” I did a quick translation. “Leeks and fish eggs in vinegar?” He grinned. “It sounds better in French.” Yeah, but did it taste better?