Now, lucky you can say, ‘Not standing up to him is giving him permission,’ but if you’ve been fed this diet since the year dot, there is no standing up. Victims aren’t cowards. Outsiders, like, they n...
Now smoking really is an expression of the rebel spirit—it’s virtually sodding illegal! Yet what are we without our addictions? Insipid. Flavorless. Careerless!
No one’s ever very sure if doves and pigeons are the same bird or not.
Never done anything yourself, have yer? Never performed live to a real audience, have yer?' 'Nor have I fucked a donkey, destabilized a Central American state, or played Dungeons & Dragons,' retorts C...
My in-ear Babelfish provides synopses of the passages rather than a running translation, but now and then the interpreter confesses, I’m sorry, but I have no idea what he just said. I’m not sure the a...
My curiosity is dying, I told Professor Mephi one pleasant day, during a seminar on Thomas Paine. I remember the sounds of a baseball game drifting thru his open window. My mentor said we had to ident...
Music leaks out of the Walkman, and a saxophone from long ago circles in the air, so sad it could barely leave the ground.
Men of your age don't bounce. They splat.
Lunatics are writers whose works write them, Bat. Not all lunatics are writers, Mrs. Rey-believe me. But most writers are lunatics, Bat-believe me. The human world is made up of stories, not people.
Love may be blind, but cohabitation comes with all the latest X-ray gizmos.
Like a shiny silver pinball whizzing out of the firing lane, I’ve not got the faintest bloody clue where I’m going or what’ll happen next.
It’s not a girl’s glittering personality that men’re interested in, Holly. It never bloody is.
It's not lies or anything, just truths I made up.
It's a small world. It keeps recrossing itself.
I wish, he thinks, spoken words could be captured and kept in a locket.
I recognised love. It forms like a weather pattern.
I recalled my father-in-law's aphorism To fool a judge, feign fascination, but to bamboozle the whole court, feign boredom... & I pretended to extract a speck from my eye.
I put ten sugar cubes in my coffee. I drank it through my tongue, and my blood sang like the Archangel Gabriel as the sugar flooded in. That can't be natural
I could tell you a hundred things, thinks Jacob, and nothing at all.
I can’t blame them. I would have stared at me, too.