Some typewriters in Whitehall, in the Pentagon, killed more civilians than our little A4 could have ever hoped to.

He decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in.

A screaming comes across the sky.

"You are so close." "To whom? Margravine, not even to himself. This place, this island: all his life he's done nothing but hop from island to island. Is that a reason? Does there have to be a reason? Shall he tell you: he works for no Whitehall, non conceivable unless, ha, ha, the network of white halls in his own brain: these featureless corridors he keeps swept and correct for occasional visiting agents."

Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.

She thougt of sunrise over the library slope at Cornell University that nobody out on it had seen because the slope faces west.

But on the way home tonight, you wish you'd picked him up, held him a bit. Just held him, very close to your heart, his cheek by the hollow of your shoulder, full of sleep. As it it were you who could, somehow, save him. For the moment not caring who you're supposed to be registered as. For the moment, anyway, no longer who the Caesars say you are.