The best part of a writer is on paper.

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“DO NOT SPEAK TO ME, SPEAK TO THIS MACHINE.  I DO NOT WISH TO SPEAK.  SPEAK TO THIS MACHINE.  I AM NOWHERE AND YOU ARE ALSO NOWHERE.  DEATH COMES WITH HIS LITTLE HANDS TO GRIP US.  I DO NOT WISH TO SPEAK.  SPEAK TO THE MACHINE.”

One of my successes in life was that in spite of all the crazy things I had done, I was perfectly normal: I chose to do things, they didn’t choose me.

“Can you sleep at night?” I asked.

“We have to drink to sleep.  And then you can never be sure.  Those bars on the windows might not mean much.  My neighbor has them.  The other night he’s eating dinner alone and then there’s a man standing behind him with a gun.  Somehow he got in through the roof.  There’s some kind of passageway up there.  They are under the house and in the roof.  They can hear everything we say.  They are listening now.”

Four loud taps came up through the floorboards.

In a capitalistic society the losers slaved for the winners and you have to have more losers than winners.

Two young blacks about eleven years old stared at us from bicycles.  It was pure, perfect hate.  I could feel it.  Poor blacks hated.  Poor whites hated.  It was only when blacks got money and whites got money that they mixed.

Wenner Zergog had borrowed the 1958 Ford and by driving the car without putting water in the radiator had cracked the engine block.

“He’s a genius,” Jon told me.  “He doesn’t know about such things.”