There's a tale in the Caballa that suggests that the Angel of Death is so beautiful that upon seeing it (or him, or her) you fall in love so hard, so fast, that your soul is pulled out through your eyes. I like that story.

Is the chemical aftertaste the reason why people eat hot dogs, or is it some kind of bonus?

I was not so old that I would deny my own senses.

Truly, life is wasted on the living, Nobody Owens. For one of us is too foolish to live, and it is not I.

I imagine the world dividing into the people who want to feed their children, and the ones shooting at them.

I liked myths. They weren't adult stories and they weren't children stories. They were better than that. They just were. Adult stories never made sense, and they were slow to start. They made me feel like there were secrets, Masonic, mythic secrets, to adulthood. Why didn't adults want to read about Narnia, about secret islands and smugglers and dangerous fairies?

There is a proverbial saying chiefly concerned with warning against too closely calculating the numerical value of un-hatched chicks.