Too perfect to be sexually attractive.

There are no innocent bystanders ... what are they doing there in the first place?

Most serious writers refuse to make themselves available to the things that technology is doing. I've never been able to understand this sort of fear.

After a shooting spree, they always want to take the guns away from the people who didn't do it.

An addict never stops growing. Stupider.

There's a boy across the river with an ass like a peach; alas I was no swimmer and lost my Clementine.

His whole being radiates a pure, wild sweetness, flitting through night woods with little melodious cries, on some cryptic errand. There is also an aura of doom and sadness about this trusting little creature. He has been abandoned many times over the centuries, left to die in cold city alleys, in hot noon vacant lots, pottery shards, nettles, crumbled mud walls. Many times he has cried for help in vain.