This,” I said pleasantly, “is known as getting it on.

You were starting to sound a little like a Stephen King novel.

A nice street, Fred. A nice neighborhood. Oh, I know how the intellectuals sneer at suburbia – it’s not as romantic as the rat-infested tenements or the hale-and-hearty back-to-the-land stuff. There are no great museums in suburbia, no great forests, no great challenges.

Getting old is like driving through snow that just gets deeper and deeper. When you finally get in over your hubcaps, you just spin and spin. That’s life. There are no plows to come and dig you out. Your ship isn’t going to come in, girl. There are no boats for nobody. You’re never going to win a contest. There’s no camera following you and people watching you struggle. This is it. All of it. Everything.

Sie pflegten mir Angst zu machen, und sie machen mir immer noch Angst, aber jetzt langweilen Sie mich auch noch, und ich habe mich entschlossen, das nicht mehr hinzunehmen.

We’ll all be glad to see you die. No one’s going to miss you, Gary. Maybe I’ll walk behind you and spit on your brains after they blow them all over the road. Maybe I’ll do that. Maybe we all will.” It.

They got that way, Garraty had noticed. Complete withdrawal from everything and everyone around them. Everything but the road. They stared at the road with a kind of horrid fascination, as if it were a tightrope thay had to walk over an endless, bottomless chasm.

The dead are orphans. No company but the silence like a moth’s wing.

Die Definition eines Arschlochs ist ein Mensch, der nicht glaubt, was er sieht.

You can’t always understand something just because you did it.