People are icebergs. So much of us is underneath.

When we consider that each of us has only one life to live, isn’t it rather tragic to find men and women, with brains capable of comprehending the stars and the planets, talking about the weather; men and women, with hands capable of creating works of art, using those hands only for routine tasks; men and women, capable of independent thought, using their minds as a bowling-alley for popular ideas; men and women, capable of greatness, wallowing in mediocrity; men and women, capable of self-expression, slowly dying a mental death while they babble the confused monotone of the mob?

When I was young I was a fool. So wrap me up in dreams and death.

Be boring, knowing everything. You have to give all that stuff up if you're going to muck about here.

So," he asked. "How's death?" "Hard," she said. "It just keeps going.

Everybody who has ever read Sandman knows exactly what the Sandman looks like, which is more than anybody who has ever read The Catcher in the Rye can say about Holden Caufield.

Why are we talking about this good and evil? They're just names for sides. We know that.