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.

The hand of Providence creeps among the stars, giving Slothrop the finger.

... as long as American life was something to be escaped from, the cartel would always be assured a bottomless pool of new customers.

Explosion without an objective', declared Miles Blundell, 'is politics in its purest form'.

You can only cruse the boulevards of regret so far, and then you've got to get back up onto the freeway again.

Oh, this beer here is cold, cold and hop-bitter, no point coming up for air, gulp, till it's all--hahhhh.

This spiritualist, this statistician, what are you anyway?

The past, hey no shit, it's an open invitation to wine abuse.

The one Word that rips apart the day...

The object of life is to make sure you die a weird death. To make sure that, however it finds you, it finds you under very weird circumstances.

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.

It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.

Hair and drug-use issues notwithstanding, I've never thought of you as any less than professional.

I am having a hallucination now, I don't need drugs for that.

Everything is some kind of a plot, man.

There is no literature and art without paranoia. Probably there would be even civilization. Paranoia is the world. It is the attempt to make sense of what has not.

As if the dead really do persist, even in a bottle of wine.

Teamwork," Koteks snarled, "is one word for it, yeah. What it really is is a way to avoid responsibility. It's a symptom of the gutlessness of the whole society.

Questions arose. Like, what in the fuck was going on here, basically.

Some of us are afraid of dying; others of human loneliness. Profane was afraid of land or seascapes like this, where nothing else lived but himself.

Death has come in the pantry door: stands watching them, iron and patient, with a look that says 'try to tickle me.

In their brief time together Slothrop forms the impression that this octopus is not in good mental health, though where's his basis for comparing?

[Oedipa Maas] awoke at last to find herself getting laid.

All variables are independent.

And when Franz Ferdinand pays, everybody pays!

What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one's enemy only when his back is turned?

But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist.

Behind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth.

She drove like one of the damned on holiday.

What was “walking on water,” if it wasn’t Bible talk for surfing?

They plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.

Some would say eccentric. I would say stoned out of his fuckin mind, nothing personal.

A woman is only half of something there are usually two sides to.

Culture attracts the worst impulses of the moneyed, it has no honor, it begs to be suburbanized and corrupted.

You can only cruise the boulevards of regret so far, and then you've got to get back up onto the freeway again.

Down the toilet, lookit me, What a silly thing ta do! Hope nobody takes a pee, Yippy dippy dippy doo . . .

She moved through it carrying her fat book, attracted, unsure, a stranger, wanting to feel relevant but knowing how much of a search among alternative universes it would take.

Stencil had called from a Hungarian coffee shop on York Avenue known as Hungarian Coffee Shop

My mother is the war,' declares Roger Mexico, leaning over to open the door.

Though she knew even less about radios than about Southern Californians, there were to both outward patterns a hieroglyphic sense of concealed meaning, of an intent to communicate.

These times are unfriendly toward Worlds alternative to this one

If the tower is everywhere and the knight of deliverance no proof against its magic,what else?

...a million bureaucrats are diligently plotting death and some of them even know it...

The hole left by the moon’s tearing-free and monument to her exile;

Chotto, Kenichiro! Dozo, motto panukeiku.

The act of metaphor then was a thrust at truth and a lie, depending where you were: inside, safe, or outside, lost.

Is it just this miserable fucking city, too many faces, making us crazy? Are we seeing some wholesale return of the dead?” “You’d prefer retail?

The grandeur of space, dig it. Zillions of stars, each one gets its own pixel.” “Awesome.” “Maybe, but it’s code’s all it is.

You wait. Everyone has an Antarctic.

Time is never wasted if you remember to bring along something to read.