Ills are many, blessings few, but dreams tonight will shelter you.
What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one’s enemy only when his back is turned?
Length is usually intensity. Not time.
There was no difference between the behavior of a god and the operations of pure chance...
There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.
Our history is an aggregate of last moments.
Despair came over her, as it will when nobody around has any sexual relevance to you.
You know what a miracle is. Not what Bakunin said. But another world’s intrusion into this one. Most of the time we coexist peacefully, but when we do touch there’s cataclysm.
Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.
Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a letter, another lover.
What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing? – Gravity’s Rainbow, V699.
Shall I project a world?
This spiritualist, this statistician, what are you anyway?
Some typewriters in Whitehall, in the Pentagon, killed more civilians than our little A4 could have ever hoped to.
It is simply wrong to begin with a theme, symbol or other abstract unifying agent, and then try to force characters and events to conform to it.
But with a sigh he had released her hand, while she was so lost in the fantasy that she hadn’t felt it go away, as if he’d known the best moment to let go.
What, I should only trust good people? Man, good people get bought and sold every day. Might as well trust somebody evil once in a while, it makes no more or less sense.
The hand of Providence creeps among the stars, giving Slothrop the finger.
It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.
Life’s single lesson: that there is more accident to it than a man can ever admit to in a lifetime and stay sane.