(When asked what he thought of Western civilization): 'I think it would be a good idea.'

I'll never fall in love again... it's like having two souls at the same time.

America was$$$ to them$$$ the place that good people went to when they died. They were prepared to believe just about anything could happen in America.

What do I do now?<br/>"I dont know. Fade away$$$ perhaps. Or find another role."

What$$$ asked Mr. Croup$$$ "do you want?"<br/>"What$$$" asked the Marquis de Carabas$$$ a little more rhetorically$$$ "does anyone want?"<br/>"Dead things$$$" suggested Mr. Vandemar. "Extra teeth."

But then it occured to him that any progress he had made on his quest so far he had made by accepting the help that had been offered to him.

I don't think it would be fun to write after inhaling art fumes. (What are art fumes?) No$$$ I just make stuff up. It's easier that way.

I don't really like driving in the snow. There's something about the motion of the falling snowflakes that hurts my eyes$$$ throws my sense of balance all to hell. It's like tumbling into a field of stars.

The autumn twilight turned into deep and early night as they walked. Tristran could smell the distant winter on the air--a mixture of night-mist and crisp darkness and the tang of fallen leaves.

Charitably... I think... sometimes$$$ perhaps$$$ one must change or die. And$$$ in the end$$$ there were$$$ perhaps$$$ limits to how much he could let himself change.