That's what fiction is about, isn't it, the selective transforming of reality? The twisting of it to bring out its essence?

But immobilizing darts don't bring on sleep gently, like a good cup of tea; they knock out like a bottle of hard liquor straight up.

Roetown, of mixed economy, neither boom nor bust, just ordinary times — that is, hard — had a slightly run-down aspect, I suppose. But in a pleasing way, like a man you love who has buttoned his coat up wrong.

Misery loves company, and madness calls it forth.

The presence of God is the finest of rewards.

I know zoos are no longer in people's good graces. Religion faces the same problem. Certain illusions about freedom plague them both.