Some forms of reality are so horrible we refuse to face them, unless we are trapped into it by comedy. To label any subject unsuitable for comedy is to admit defeat.

Is there anybody hiding there in the dark?

If I can't really find a way to live with myself, I can't expect anyone else to live with me.

Ecstatic over the total annihilation of the Earth, Dr. Strangelove "resurrects" himself, miraculously regaining his ability to walk. His mechanical, robot-like body rises out of his wheelchair, crying exultantly: "Sir! I have a plan. Heh." (He realizes he is standing up.) "Mein Fuehrer, I can walk!"

Facts - behind them lies the whole fabric of deductive truth.

There is no me. I do not exist. There used to be a me but I had it surgically removed.

When you have been killed as many times as I have, you get used to it.