He had never been a social man. He had shunned causes with contempt and disgust. They were for pig-simple suckers and people with too much time and money on their hands

For a moment he felt a wild hope: perhaps this really was a nightmare. Perhaps he would awake in his own bed, bathed in sweat, shaking, maybe even crying . . . but alive. Safe. Then he pushed the thought away. Its charm was deadly, its comfort fatal.

The woman who preaches has poison religion. Let the respectable ones go

Kill you all!" The clown was laughing and screaming. "Try to stop me and I'll kill you all! Drive you crazy and then kill you all! You can't stop me!

People don't get better, they just get smarter. When you get smarter you don't stop pulling the wings off flies, you just think of better reasons for doing it.

The world had teeth and it could bite you with them anytime it wanted.

In the year 2025, the best men don't run for president, they run for their lives. . . .

Seven, Richie thought. That's the magic number. There has to be seven of us. That's the way it's supposed to be.

Once again there was the desert, and that only.