“I met you under the balloon, on the occasion of your return from Norway; you asked if it was mine; I said it was. The balloon, I said, is a spontaneous autobiographical disclosure, having to do with the unease I felt at your absence, and with sexual deprivation, but now that your visit to Bergen has been terminated, it is no longer necessary or appropriate. Removal of the balloon was easy; trailer trucks carried away the depleted fabric, which is now stored in West Virginia, awaiting some other time of unhappiness, some time, perhaps, when we are angry with one another.”

“—What do the children say?—There's a thing the children say.—What do the children say?—They say: Will you always love me?—Always.—Will you always remember me?—Always.—Will you remember me a year from now?—Yes, I will.—Will you remember me two years from now?—Yes, I will.—Will you remember me five years from now?—Yes, I will.—Knock knock.—Who's there?—You see?("Great Days," Forty Stories)”

“Mother, have you noticed that this society we’re in tends to be a little…repressive?” “What does that mean, Eugenie? What does that mean, that strange new word, ‘repressive,’ that I have never heard before?” “It means…it’s like when you decide to do something, and you get up out of your chair to do it, and you take a step, and then become aware of frosty glances being directed at you from every side.” “Frosty glances?” “Your desires are stifled.” “What desires are you talking about?” “Just desires in general. Any desires. It’s a whole…I guess atmosphere is the…word…a tendency on the part of the society…” “You’d better sew some more pillow cases, Eugenie.”

“On the other hand I myself have impulses toward violence uneasily concealed. Especially when I look out of the window at the men and women, walking along in the course of a day because I spend so much time, as we all do, looking out of windows to determine what is out there, and what should be done about it.”

“The world in the evening seems fraught with the absence of promise, if you are a married man. There is nothing to do but go home and drink your nine drinks and forget about it.”

“You came and fell upon me, I was sitting in the wicker chair. The wicker exclaimed as your weight fell upon me. You were light, I thought, and I thought how good it was of you to do this. We'd never touched before.”

“... And Harold came into Perpetua's apartment.He said, 'I just want to know one thing. Are you happy?' 'Sure,' Perpetua said. (Donald Barthelme, "Perpetua")”