Why is your equation only for angels, Roger? Why can't we do something, down here? Couldn't there be an equation for us too, something to help us find a safer place?' 'Why am I surrounded,' his usual...
Why is it that we honor the Great Thieves of Whitehall, for Acts that in Whitechapel would merit hanging? Why admire one sort of Thief, and despise the other? I suggest, 'tis because of the Scale of t...
What? -- RICHARD M NIXON
Slothrop, who believes that women, like Martians, have antennas men do not, keeps an eye on her.
Proverbs for Paranoids, 3: If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.
Our product is still totally DeepArcher?Which is…Like ‘departure’, only you pronounce it DeepArcher?Zen thing, Maxine guesses.Weed thing.
One glance at any government budget anywhere in the world tells the story—the money is always in place, already allocated, the motive everywhere is fear, the more immediate the fear, the higher the mu...
Women could protest from now till piss flowed uphill, but the truth was, there wasn’t one didn’t secretly love a killer. And
The Depression, by the time it came, ratified what'd been under way. Slothrop grew up in a hilltop desolation of businesses going under, hedges around the estates of the vastly rich, half-mythical cot...
Slothrop’s Progress: London the secular city instructs him: turn any corner and he can find himself inside a parable.
If there is any political moral to be found in this world, Stencil once wrote in his journal, it is that we carry on the business of this century with an intolerable double vision. Right and Left; the...
Before long, Maxine finds herself wandering around clicking on everything, faces, litter on the floor, labels on bottles behind the bar, after a while interested not so much in where she might get to...
And when Franz Ferdinand pays, everybody pays!
The figure dropped like an acid tab into the mouth of Time.
Together they are a long skin interface, flowing sweat, close as muscles and bones can press, hardly a word beyond her name, or his.
Meantime the Newspaper of Record goes around in a little pleated skirt shaking pompoms, leaping in the air with an idiot grin if so much as a cement mixer passes by.
In Mexico City they somehow wandered into an exhibition of paintings by the beautiful Spanish exile Remedios Varo: in the central painting of a triptych, titled Bordando el Manto Terrestre, were a num...
If patterns of ones and zeroes were like patterns of human lives and deaths, if everything about an individual could be represented in a computer record by a long strings of ones and zeroes, then what...
C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre
Colonies are the outhouses of the European soul, where a fellow can let his pants down and relax, enjoy the smell of his own shit.