The guns-for-everyone advocates hate that statistic, and dispute it, but as Bill Clinton likes to say, it’s not opinion. It’s arithmetic, honey.
In a week, you’ll take it for granted,” he said dismissively. “That’s the way it works with miracles.
In the brain of a madman only the fuming present exists, with its endless shouting urges, paranoid speculations, and grandiose assumptions.
Reality was a drunk buying a lottery ticket, cashing out to the tune of seventy million dollars, and splitting it with his favorite barmaid. A little girl emerging alive from a well in Texas where she’d been trapped for six days. A college boy falling from a fifth-floor in Cancun and only breaking his wrist. Reality was Ralph.
I’m afraid to go to sleep. I’m afraid my dead friends will come to me, and that seeing them will kill me.
Not all are called to the way of the sword or the gun or the ship, but all serve ka.
Head clear. Mouth shut. See much. Say little.
It takes the average human seven minutes to go to sleep, but according to Hand’s Human Physiology, it takes the same average human fifteen to twenty minutes to wake up.
And when the end comes, and when it is as horrible as good men always knew it would be, there is only one thing to say as all those good men approach the Throne of Judgment: I was misled.
Cada vida no es sino un breve panfleto escrito por un idiota.
A little bit of grace. That’s what a good dog is, you know. A little bit of grace.
Eddie looks at this, mouth dry, the familiar sensation of suffocation starting to tighten down in his chest like locking bolts.
So let us go then, you and I, while the evening spreads out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table.
Facing a dangerous man was always a bad business, but at least one could calculate the odds in such an encounter. When you were facing the dead, however, everything changed.
Eddie was all the more delicate because he sometimes suspected he was not delicate at all; Eddie needed to be protected from his own intimations of possible bravery.
There was a momentary added weight in my stomach, almost like a sickness. There’s a name for that sort of sickness. I think it’s called falling in love with your best friend’s girl. “You’ve.
Saint Paul was all too right about that dark glass. We look through it all our days and see nothing but our own reflections.
Bill Hodges is her touchstone, the way she measures her ability to interact with the world. Which is only another way of saying that he is the way she measures her sanity. Trying to imagine her life with him gone is like standing on top of a skyscraper and looking at the sidewalk sixty stories below.
Every religion lies. Every moral precept is a delusion. Even the stars are a mirage.
The reason is best summed up by Susannah’s thought as she prepares to tell Blaine the first riddle of their contest: It is hard to begin. There’s nothing in these pages that I agree with more.