When I was a child... I was watching a snowstorm, and hopefully asked, 'Momma, do we believe in winter?'

People were standing up everywhere shouting, "This is me! This is me!" Every time you looked at them they stood up and told you who they were, and the truth of it was that they had no more idea who or what they were than he had. They believed their flashing signs, too. They ought to be standing up and shouting, "This isn't me! This isn't me!" They would if they had any decency. "This isn't me!" Then you might know how to proceed through the flashing bullshit of this world.

He was no more, freed from being, entering into nowhere without even knowing it. Just as he'd feared from the start.

Satire is moral outrage transformed into comic art.

I kept waiting for him to lay bare something more than this pointed unobjectionableness, but all that rose to the surface was more surface

Old age isn't a battle; old age is a massacre.

If you read a novel in more than two weeks, you don't read the novel really.