We have entered a Moment when we are alone. We cannot get assistance, as before. Well, Mr. Tagomi thought, perhaps that too is good. Or can be made good. One must still try to find the Way.

In a nutshell-I fear authority but at the same time I resent it-the authority and my own fear. So I rebel.

How can justice fall victim, ever, to what is right?

Truth, she thought. As terrible as death. But harder to find.

It did not seem possible that Wendy Wright had been born out of blood and internal organs like other people. In proximity to her he felt himself to be a squat, oily, sweating, uneducated nurt whose stomach rattled and whose breath wheezed. Near her he became aware of the physical mechanisms which kept him alive; within him machinery, pipes and valves and gas-compressors and fan belts had to chug away at a losing task, a labor ultimately doomed. Seeing her face, he discovered that his own consisted of a garish mask; noticing her body made him feel like a low-class wind-up toy.

For each person there is a sentence—a series of words—which has the power to destroy them.

Reality denied comes back to haunt.