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And so I went through the looking glass, stepped into the netherworld, where up is down and food is greed, where convex mirrors cover the walls, where death is honor and flesh is weak. It is ever so easy to go. Harder to find your way back.

You never come back, not all the way. Always there is an odd distance between you and the people you love and the people you meet, a barrier thin as the glass of a mirror, you never come all the way out of the mirror; you stand, for the rest of your life, with one foot in this world and no one in another, where everything is upside down and backward and sad.

"It's only after you've lost everything," Tyler says, "that you're free to do anything."

I just don't want to die without a few scars.

Alt i naturen var uten besvær. Det var ikke forbundet med noen problemer å være en stein. Fiskene hadde nok med å passe seg for større og slemmere fisker. Solen visste hva den hadde å gjøre, skinne, skinne som faen. Bare mennesket gikk forvirret rundt og skjønte ingenting. Hvorfor var det så problematisk å være menneske når alt annet var så tilsynelatende lett? Så vanskelig var det å leve, så enestående omstendelig og intrikat, at man nesten måtte tro at det var et poeng i at det var slik. Men hvilket?

"Hvis du er død," sa han, "hvorfor er du her da? Og hvorfor er du ikke her?"

And what I'd done is, I'd pissed my life away. Literally. Well, OK, not literally literally. I hadn't, you know, turned my life into urine and stored it in my bladder and so on and so forth.

Wanting to kill myself was an appropriate and reasonable response to a whole series of unfortunate events that had rendered life unlivable.

Tiden flyr når du er en dust.

En slags fullkommenhet. Som ikke førte noensteds hen. Som hodet mitt.

It's so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. That's above and beyond everything else, and it's not a mental complaint -- it's a physical thing, like it's physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. They don't come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people's words do; they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. So you just keep quiet.

He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it.

Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so.

Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.

In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move.

Midt i begynnelsen, noe sort. Og det samme i sluttens kjerne som er hard, noe uforandret og sort.

Jeg kan ennå høre navnet hennes, selv om navnet er borte. De første lydene, fuglenes galskap, finner sin form i en drøm, en lys, florlett og stillestående drøm, som et bilde, eller et ansikt, eller et eddekoppnett; og midt i drømmen, noe sort.