Truth, at the wrong time, can be dangerous.

Before the real city could be seen it had to be imagined, the way rumours and tall tales were a kind of charting.

The last three books are much more a case of a moment of history, what happened almost by accident or coincidence, like being in the same elevator or lifeboat.

Water is the exile, carried back in cans and flasks, the ghost between your hands and your mouth.

You want to suggest something new, but at the same time, resolve the drama of the action in the novel.

Why are you not smarter? It's only the rich who can't afford to be smart. They're compromised. They got locked years ago into privilege. They have to protect their belongings. No one is meaner than the rich. Trust me. But they have to follow the rules of their shitty civilised world. They declare war, they have honour, and they can't leave. But you two. We three. We're free.

The rulers of the country generally believed that betting eliminates strikes. Men had to work in order to gamble.