“The world is nearing spiritual death, and America is second only to Europe in the digging of its grave - a grave dug by deception.”

“I rode all day.I cried all night.The moon didn’t glow.The sun didn’t rise.A comet blazedBetween my eyes.West and South,Wind and rain.Every way isJust the same.Pray give me a boxTo hide inside.Pray give me a spadeTo dig my own grave.”

“-- it's rapidly turning into an us versus them scenario. And it's all but assured that someone is going to fall into the mass graves that corporate America is digging.”

“Life turns, and returns death. Where death digs its claws into the grave only to pull out life, as a baby from a womb; and the recycle of air, the recycle of struggles that never achieve satisfaction, in a constant turning world, of an untuned universe.”

“She reached inside the wide ruffle and pulled out a little vial. “Poison?” asked Lady Maccon, tilting her head to one side. “Certainly not. Something far more important: perfume. We cannot very well have you fighting crime unscented, now, can we?” “Oh.” Alexia nodded gravely. After all, Madame Lefoux was French. “Certainly not.”

“Someone was trying to kill Lady Alexia Maccon. It was most inconvenient, as she was in a dreadful hurry. Given her previous familiarity with near-death experiences and their comparative frequency with regards to her good self, Alexia should probably have allowed extra time for such a predictable happenstance.”

“Life's a grave dig it.”