The children of the hour of darkness were born$$$ I'm afraid$$$ in the midst of the age of darkness; so that although we found it easy to be brilliant$$$ we were always confused about being good.

Methwold's hair$$$ parted in the middle has a lot to do with my beginnings. It was one of those hairlines along which history and sexuality moved.

Easily found$$$ easily gathered$$$ lives were the small change of this world$$$ and if you lost a few$$$ it didn't matter; there were always more.

The old are destroying the young by them to die in distant fields$$$ and in response the young are destroying themselves.

This is our tragedy$$$ she said in his words$$$ our fictions are killing us$$$ but if we didn't have those fictions$$$ maybe that would kill us too.

She says$$$ trying uselessly to console me: 'What are you so long for in your face? Everybody forgets some small things$$$ all the time!' But if small things go$$$ will large things be close behind?

Life has vanquished death and even the furniture celebrates.

Why$$$ alone of all the more-than-five-hundred-million$$$ should I have to bear the burden of history?

O ineluctable superiority of northernness.

We strive for heights but our natures betray us$$$ Chamcha thought; clowns in search of crowns. The bitterness overcame him.