...he was after all, a novelist...and a novelist was simply a fellow who got paid to tell lies. The bigger the lies, the better the pay.
He didn’t know if that was really true or not, but he discovered something which was tremendously liberating: he didn’t care. He was very tired of thinking and thinking and still not knowing. He was also tired of being frightened, like a man who ...
I want to make sure I remember what real ugly is. I might want to tell my grandchildren someday.
You're dead, George. You just don't have the sense to lie down.
