“If my thought-dreams could be seen/ They'd probably put my head in a guillotine.”

“I don't want to go to the government," the Schwa says. "Yeah," I said. "They'd dissect him and put him in a formaldehyde fish tank in Area 51." Howie shook his head. "Area 51 is for aliens," he says. "They'd probably put him in Area 52.”

“The Queen has been guillotined, accused of crimes beyond imagining. Last night she appeared to me in a dream, handing me her head.”

“Because all I could think about was you, Anna, and how good you are, and what you'd think of me. You put thoughts into my head a Neph shouldn't have!”

“In my late thirties the dream of disappointment and exhaustion had been the dream of the exploding head: the dream of a noise in my head so loud and long that I felt with the brain that survived that the brain could not survive; that this was death. Now, in my early fifties, after my illness, after I had left the manor cottage and put an end to that section of my life, I began to be awakened by thoughts of death, the end of things; and sometimes not even by thoughts so specific, not even by fear rational or fantastic, but by a great melancholy. This melancholy penetrated my mind while I slept; and then, when I awakened in response to its prompting, I was so poisoned by it, made so much not a doer (as men must be, every day of their lives), that it took the best part of the day to shake it off. And that wasted or dark day added to the gloom preparing for the night.”

“I’m not like that fellow who thought it a far, far better thing to trade his life for that of another. I’m nothing like him: I’d never volunteer to lay my head in the lap of Madame la Guillotine. No, that fellow was a hero and I’m not a hero at all.”