“This city is dying of rabies. Is the best I can do to wipe random flecks of foam from its lips?”

“Rorschach's Journal: October 12th, 1985Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face.The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown.The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll look down and whisper "No.”

“I shall die here. Every last inch of me shall perish. Except one. An inch. It's small and it's fragile and it's the only thing in the world worth having. we must never lose it, or sell it, or give it away. We must never let them take it from us.”

“Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves; go into oblivion. There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us.”

“Okay. There it is. I dressed up. As an owl. And fought crime. Perhaps you begin to see why I half expect this summary of my career to raise more laughs than poor cuckolded Moe Vernon with his foam teats and his Wagner could ever hoped to have done.”

“Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose.”

“A world grows up around me. Am I shaping it, or do its predetermined contours guide my hand?”