Your world must have very dry literature.
Well, it’s a job just like any other. Good work with lots of variety. Monday, we burn Miller; Tuesday, Tolstoy; Wednesday, Walt Whitman; Friday, Faulkner; and Saturday and Sunday, Schopenhauer and Sartre. We burn them to ashes and then burn the ashes. That’s our official motto.
The glow was from fire. A pitchy torch, flung to the top of Miles’s tent set up in the yard, was burning quietly.
They had to have food–and they’d also need blankets, matches, a knife, and a map if they could find one.
Look, I don’t know if you guys know it, but uh… you’re out of toilet paper.
Oh, shit. There goes the planet.
Pig shit. The lights, the motors, the vehicles, all run by a high-powered gas called methane. And methane comes from pig shit.
Underground gas main, genius! You fellas need to exercise a lot more caution before discharging your firearms, I’ll tell you that much right now. Especially you. Now have yourselves checked out with EMS on the other side of the hill before you leave.
We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go back?
It’s today, it’s now, and there’s no turning back.
To be, or not to be, that is the question. Weeelll… More of A question really. Not THE question. Because, well, I mean, there are billions and billions of questions out there, and well, when I say billions, I mean, when you add in the answers, not just the questions, weeelll, you’re looking at numbers that are positively astronomical and… for that matter the other question is what you lot are doing on this planet in the first place, and er, did anyone try just pushing this little red button?
A great big, red, threatening button which must not be pressed under any circumstances, am I right?
How can he possibly resist the maddening urge to eradicate history at the mere push of a single button? The beautiful, shiny button? The jolly, candy-like button? Will he hold out, folks? Can he hold out?
We’ve agreed that it’s the shiny boots.
Johnny Rico: Who are these kids?
Ace Levy: We got reinforced. Most of them are fresh out of boot.
Johnny Rico: We’re the old men, Ace.
The smaller one, who seemed much older than the other, glanced at Tia and saw the star box dangling from her wrist.
What do you mean? You can hardly see the strings.
The puppeteer unrolled completely. ‘Did I hear you call me cute?’
Appallingly cute, en masse.
The worst is over now.