Sleep is when all the unsorted stuff comes flying out as from a dustbin upset in a high wind.

I think they've got 250 languages in Nigeria, and so English is a sort of lingua franca between the 250 languages.

His mind was crowded with memories; memories of the knowledge that had come to them when they closed in on the struggling pig, knowledge that they had outwitted a living thing, imposed their will upon it, taken away its life like a long satisfying drink.

Put simply the novel stands between us and the hardening concept of statistical man. There is no other medium in which we can live for so long and so intimately with a character. That is the service a novel renders.

Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!

If faces were different when lit from above or below -- what was a face? What was anything?

He doesn't mind if he dies... indeed, he would like to die; but yet he fears to fall. He would welcome a long sleep; but not at the price of falling to it.