There are plenty of good reasons for fighting.

. . . but the Universe is an awfully big place. There is room enough for an awful lot of people to be right about things and still not agree.

I had a friend who was a heavy drinker. If somebody asked him if he'd been drunk the night before, he would always answer offhandedly, 'Oh, I imagine.' I've always liked that answer. It acknowledges life as a dream.

I'm not a drug salesman. I'm a writer." "What makes you think a writer isn't a drug salesman?

Children get smashed for hours on some strictly limited aspect of the Great Big Everything, the Universe, such as water or snow or mud or colors or rocks.

Their imaginations were flywheels on the ramshackle machinery of the awful truth.

What war has always been is a puberty ceremony. It's a very rough one, but you went away a boy and came back a man, maybe with an eye missing or whatever but godammit you were a man and people had to call you a man thereafter.