“I find it tiring," he'd said.”

“I was making for that city in the south of which it was said in our village:"There you'll find queer folk! Just think, they never sleep!""And why not?""Because they never get tired.""And why not?""Because they're fools.""Don't fools get tired?""How could fools get tired!"---Children on a Country Road, Contemplation.”

“Lately, though, he'd just been tired in general. Tired of people. Tired of books and TV and the nightly news and songs on the radio he'd heard years before and hadn't liked much in the first place. He was tired of his clothes and tired of his hair and tired of other people's clothes and other people's hair. He was tired of wishing things made sense. He'd gotten to a point where he was pretty sure he'd heard everything anyone had to say on any given subject and so it seemed he spent his days listening to old recordings of things that hadn't seemed fresh the first time he'd heard them.Maybe he was simply tired of life, of the absolute effort it took to get up every goddamned morning and walk out with into the same fucking day with only slight variations in the weather and food.He wondered if this was what clinical depression felt like, a total numbness, a weary lack of hope.”

“I think it may truly said that if you are tired of San Francisco, you are tired of life.”

“I find it very hard to believe she would simply send you both back unharmed," Josephine said."And I couldn't care less," I said tiredly, "about setting your mind at ease, Josephine.""Why, you belligerent little-”

“Perhaps I’m tired of waiting for something I may never find.”

“If you are not a lady, then you are a whore. You do not want to know what would happen to a human whore within these walls." He seemed tired as he said it, as if he'd been there, done that, and hadn't had a good time.”