It’s true what they say, thought Shadow. If you can fake sincerity, you’ve got it made.
Horus is crazy, really bugfuck crazy, spends all his time as a hawk, eats roadkill, what kind of a life is that?
And then he was silent; and from far above they heard the sounds of crows flying, cawing angrily. “Crows. Family Corvidae. Collective noun,” intoned Mr. Croup, relishing the sound of the word. “a murder.
If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each others’ tragedies.
Be hole, be dust, be dream, be wind Be night, be dark, be wish, be mind, Now slip, now slide, now move unseen, Above, beneath, betwixt, between.
But neither path is safe. Which way would you walk – the way of hard truths or the way of fine lies?” Shadow hesitated. “Truths,” he said. “I’ve come too far for more lies.
I walked out and I got a standing ovation from all these people, and it’s like a creepy thing... either you’ve become a cultural icon, or they are applauding the fact that you are not dead yet.
My hound hath no nose.
We’re going to San Francisco. The flowers in your hair are optional.
The marquis breathed heavily on his fingernails and polished them on the lapel of his coat. “I have always felt,” he said, “that violence was the last refuge of the incompetent, and empty threats the final sanctuary of the terminally inept.
It doesn’t matter that you didn’t believe in us,” said Mr. Ibis. “We believed in you.
Because,” announced Tristran, “every lover is in his heart a madman, and in his head a minstrel.
That’s when I miss you most. When you’re here. When you aren’t here, when you’re just a ghost from the past or a dream from another life, it’s easier then.
You are young, and in love,” said Primus. “Every young man in your position is the most miserable young man who ever lived.
Or how it feels to be more important than kings and queens, than presidents or prime ministers or heroes, to be sure of it, in the same way that people are more important than brussels sprouts?
Were you always like this?’ ‘Like what?’ ‘A madman. With a time machine.’ ‘Oh, no. It took ages until I got the time machine.
The dead can’t hurt you, they’re dead. Living things can hurt you, living people can hurt you but the dead can’t.
People respond to the stories. They tell them themselves. The stories spread, and as people tell them, the stories change the tellers.
I’m the idiot box. I’m the TV. I’m the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I’m the boob tube. I’m the little shrine the family gathers to adore.
If Hell is other people, thought Shadow, then Purgatory is airports.