All reading is good reading. And all reading of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens is sublime reading.

But with a sigh he had released her hand$$$ while she was so lost in the fantasy that she hadn't felt it go away$$$ as if he'd known the best moment to let go.

There is no literature and art without paranoia. Probably there would be even civilization. Paranoia is the world. It is the attempt to make sense of what has not.

Behind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning$$$ or only the earth.

For me$$$ Shambhala$$$ you see$$$ turned out to be not a goal but an absence. Not the discovery of a place but the act of leaving the futureless place where I was. And in the process I arrived at Constantinople.

Shit$$$ money$$$ and the World$$$ the three American truths$$$ powering the American mobility$$$ claimed the Slothrops$$$ clasped them for good to the country's fate. But they did not prosper... about all they did was persist.

Some of us are afraid of dying; others of human loneliness. Profane was afraid of land or seascapes like this$$$ where nothing else lived but himself.

In their brief time together Slothrop forms the impression that this octopus is not in good mental health$$$ though where's his basis for comparing?

The hole left by the moons tearing-free and monument to her exile.

Mason glowers$$$ shaking his head. "I've ascended$$$ descended$$$ even condescended$$$ and the List's not ended$$$ but haven't yet trans-cended a blessed thing$$$ thankee."