He just tarted up his misdemeanours and made them look respectable,
He has tried imagining her as a prostitute—he often plays this private mental game with various women he encounters—but he can’t picture any man actually paying for her services. It would be like payi...
He has something we don't have, he has the word.
He had been with me, but he wasn't with me now, we had been walking along a street like this one and then the future swept over us and we were separated. He was in the distance now, across the ocean,...
He doesn't understand yet that guilt comes to you not from the things you've done, but from the things that others have done to you.
He doesn't know which is worse, a past he can't regain or a present that will destroy him if he looks at it too clearly. Then there's the future. Sheer vertigo.
He can’t shake the feeling that this place is some sort of pyramid scheme, and that those who fail to understand that will be left empty-handed. But there’s no obvious reason for this feeling of his....
Happy as a clam, is what my mother says for happy. I am happy as a clam: hard-shelled, firmly closed.
Guess it’s the climate change, says Sam. That’s what people say, the way they used to say, We’ve angered God.
Grace's will is of the negative female variety - she can deny and reject much more easily than she can affirm or accept. Somewhere within herself - he's seen it, if only for a moment, that conscious,...
God, do I need a cigarette, says Moira. Me too, I say. I feel ridiculously happy.
God cannot be held to the narrowness of literal and materialistic interpretations, nor measured by Human measurements, for His days are eons, and a thousand ages of our time are like an evening to Him...
For the children with their greedy little mouths represent the future, which like time itself will devour all now alive.
For so much time, our historywas written in bones only.
Fool, he tells himself. She’s not here. She was never here. It was imagination and wishful thinking, nothing but that. Resign yourself. He can’t resign himself.
Female artists are biologically confused, said Crake.
Falling in love... how could he have made such light of it? Sneered even. As if it was trivial for us, a frill, a whim. It was, on the contrary, heavy going. It was the central thing, the way you unde...
Everything is post these days, as is we're all just a footnote to something earlier that was real enough to have a name of its own.
Every time the women appear, Snowman is astonished all over again. They're every known colour from the deepest black to whitest white, they're various heights, but each one of them is admirably propor...
By the time she was sixteen, Jane had heard enough about this to last her several lifetimes. In her mother’s account of the way things were, you were young briefly and then you fell. You plummeted dow...