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But anyone who doesnt understand that the Manhattan Project is one of the most significant events in human history hasnt been paying attention. It's up there with fire and language.

Det jeg ennå ikke visste, var at hånsordene og frykten skulle redde meg fra deg, fra landsbyen, fra å kopiere livet ditt. Jeg visste ennå ikke at ydmykelsene skulle tvinge meg til å bli fri.

Men det var svårt att hitta jobb här.
Särskilt för en amerikan.
Det är ingen som tar en amerikan seriöst.
De tycker att vi är en massa idioter.

If somebody calls somebody just a plain fuck it just means they left off the adjective?
Plain is an adjective.
Is Long John a son of a bitch?
No. He's too pathetic.
Is he a sick fuck?
Let me put it this way. If you look up sick fuck in the dictionary you'll find his picture.

Those who survived would often remember these horrors with a certain aesthetic to them. In the mycoidal phantom blooming in the dawn like an evil lotus and in the melting of solids not heretofore known to do so stood a truth that would silence poetry a thousand years. Like an immense bladder, they would say. Like some sea thing. Wobbling slightly on the near horizon. Then the unspeakable noise. They saw birds in the dawn sky ignite and explode soundlessly and fall in long arcs earthward like burning party favors.

What else? God. The man's a seducer of prelates and a suborner of the judiciary. He's an habitual mailcandler and a practicing gelignitionary, a mathematical platonist and a molester of domestic yardfowl. Principally of the dominecker persuasion. A chickenfucker, not to put too fine a point on it.

Rundt bena deres strøk den leverfargede katta, et utyske som alle på bruket hatet.

De to gnomene hadde åpenbart aldri hatt noe seksualliv, om enn muligens i forplantningsøyemed (etter hvert skulle det faktisk vise seg at de hadde avlet fram en sønn); de hørte rett og slett ikke til den delen av menneskeheten som har tilgang til seksualiteten. Likevel var de forarget og kritiserte paven mens de jamret seg over en AIDS-sykdom de aldri ville få anledning til å pådra seg; jeg hadde mest lyst til å dø, men jeg klarte å holde meg.

Jeg hadde aldri vært forelsket i noen før Isabelle, og ingen kvinne hadde vært forelsket i meg heller, bortsett fra Hengeræva, [...]

Det jeg syntes var mest sjokkerende på dette punktet i refleksjonen, var ikke at det fantes småjenter man kunne få for penger, men at det fantes småjenter man ikke kunne få for penger, eller bare til uoverkommelige priser; kort sagt ønsket jeg meg en bedre markedsregulering.

Når jeg tenkte på Nabokov, så jeg alltid for meg mislykket butterdeig.

David was immediately soothed by Nikki’s adept handling of people just out of the hospital. She had just the right passive quality, unlike me, who went pacing all around looking for a flat mirror and a razor blade.

I fell in love with Shawn more when he picked up the check for breakfast and insisted that it was all on him. That’s when I fell in love with him, I remember now perfectly.

I remember when I first started having lovers, they never failed to remind me that if I didn’t watch out, I’d get really fat (implying that I was painful enough to behold as it was). Then the Beatles came with their Jane Ashers and those Mary Quant clothes that you could only wear if you were ten years old and raised on English cabbage.

Having quit smoking, I knew what she meant. Unless one is in the exact right mood, it’s impossible. Smoking has been so glamorous for so long, all those matches, those pauses, the lipstick on the tips—the smoke itself curling its casual way through the most nerve-wracking moments. But in another way, smoking, although glamorous, has never been as glamorous as heroin—and dying from cigarettes just doesn’t have the tragic sunset quality that O.D.ing lends to death. Heroin is the celebrated romantic excess of our time.

I don’t really know if it was the flimsies or the dinner but I’ve often noticed that there is a moment when a man develops enough confidence and ease in a relationship to bore you to death.

My sister is small, light, beautiful, with no hips and perfect breasts. I am fifteen pounds overweight, which I can forget sometimes until my sister appears. I am sort of invincible looking and I never display any of those womanly qualities so praised through the ages, like modesty, tact, or sweet vulnerability. My sister, on the other hand, always looks as though her favorite kitten just got run over.

The Blackboard is a big ordinary room, not too organized, and you don’t have to pay to get in or anything. There’s a stage where a kind of charming-looking band plays country songs, there’s a nice big dance floor, there are tables and chairs, and opposite from the stage running the whole length of the room is a bar. A cop at the door asked for my I.D.—a wonderful moment.