“It was massive. A blurting, busting, backfire! A flabbergasting, fire-breathing, flub-explosion! A propelling, paint-stripping, prison-break!”

“What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent,My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait,I moisten the roots of all that has grown.”

“What had happened to the old Jack Grammar, the one who would have flubbed it somehow?Well, I reasoned: I could still flub it. Let the flubbing begin!”

“He was going to be armed with his wand - which, just now, felt like nothing more than a narrow strip of wood - against a fifty-foot-high, scaly, spike-ridden, fire-breathing dragon.”

“If you are in a prison of fear ... break out!”

“Every so often, a painter has to destroy painting. Cezanne did it, Picasso did it with Cubism. Then Pollock did it. He busted our idea of a picture all to hell. Then there could be new paintings again.”