There was the cell where Fr. Eulalio, a thriving lunatic of eighty-six who was castigating himself for unchristian pride at having all the vowels in his name, and greatly revered for his continuous weeping, went blind in an ecstasy of such howling proportions that his canonization was assured.
I’ll tell you why yes, because why people lie is, because when people stop lying you know they’ve stopped caring.
Get a black suit and just freeload, problem it’s too God damned late now even to be any of the things I never wanted to be.
He stood there unsteady in the cold, mumbling syllables which almost resolved into her name, as though he could recall, and summon back, a time before death entered the world, before accident, before magic, and before magic despaired, to become religion.
What’s any artist, but the dregs of his work? the human shambles that follows it around. What’s left of the man when the work’s done but a shambles of apology.
Stupidity is the deliberate cultivation of ignorance.
Justice? You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law.
He walked out into the cold morning asking himself this heretical question: Can you start measuring a minute at any instant you wish?
Power doesn’t corrupt people; people corrupt power.
If you want to make a million you don’t have to understand money, what you have to understand is people’s fears about money.
There is nothing more distressing or tiresome than a writer standing in front of an audience and reading his work.