As illustrated in any number of footnotes, men are almost always 50 to 60 percent dumber in matters involving their crotch.

The only real escape from hell is to conquer it.

Steve sighed, wishing for a cigarette. “The Buddha teaches respect for all life.” “Oh.” She considered this. “Are you a Buddhist?” “No. I’m an asshole. But I keep trying.

I've seen him do paintings, drawings, all different things. I asked him to draw our conference championship shirt and he drew a design on the back with the six conference teams. He put all them on a pedestal with our mascot above and scores from the games below. This kid is talented. I'll never get another like him.

It echoed down the grimy hallways and squandered moments of his life, the answer to every question, the lyric of all songs.

Steve didn’t like the stairs. It bothered him that they hung in midair, unsupported. Steve said this “weirded him out."

This wasn’t surprising. The list of things that Steve found objectionable was long and growing. It included the Library itself (“How can the furniture hang on the ceiling like that? It’s creepy.”); the jade floor (“Jade isn’t supposed to glow.”); the apothecary (“What the hell is that thing? I’m out of here.”); the armory (David’s trophies made him throw up); the Pelapi language (“It sounds like cats fighting”); her robes (“Did you borrow those from Death?” She hadn’t.); and, of course, Carolyn herself.