Most writers are not quick-witted when they talk. Novelists, in particular, drag themselves around in society like gut-shot bears.

My ancestors were all Freethinkers, formerly Catholics. It was science and Darwin, in particular, that made them decide, as educated people, which they were, that the priest, nice as he was, didn't know what he was talking about.

The city was blacked out because bombers might come, so Billy didn't get to see Dresden do one of the most cheerful things a city can do when the sun goes down, which is to wink its lights on one by one.

Kilgore Trout once wrote a short story which was a dialogue between two pieces of yeast. They were discussing the possible purposes of life as they ate sugar and suffocated in their own excrement. Because of their limited intelligence, they never came close to guessing that they were making champagne.

If facts weren't funny, or scary, or couldn't make you rich, the heck with them.

Nothing in this book is true.

There's only one me, and I'm stuck with him.