They wanted to have a good time, but they were like children playing in the street; they could see one after another of them being killed--run over, maimed, destroyed--but they continued to play anyhow.

I never felt like that before. Maybe it could be depression, like you get. I can understand how you suffer now when you're depressed; I always thought you liked it and I thought you could have snapped yourself out any time, if not alone then my means of the mood organ. But when you get that depressed you don't care. Apathy, because you've lose a sense of worth. It doesn't matter whether you feel better because you have no worth.

Fear can make you do more wrong than hate or jealousy... fear makes you always, always hold something back.

I must admit that the existence of Disneyland (which I know is real) proves that we are not living in Judaea in 50 AD. . . . Saint Paul would never go near Disneyland. Only children, tourists, and visiting Soviet high officials ever go to Disneyland. Saints do not.

In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real.

Whom the gods notice they destroy. Be small... and you will escape the jealousy of the great.

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