“The poet he was escorting into Wales was a Horus-headed dud of some personal magnetism. The hair was feathered gell, the nose hooked. He stared at me and he didn’t. His eyes belonged to a magician; one bored into you, right through the lens into the depths of the vitreous humor—while the other popped and wobbled in the style of Ben Turpin. He folded in on himself, profile sharp as an axe. A labrys. This man would have no problem seeing around a corner.”

“He dresses himself in tight black jeans, Amoco shirt, and polished cowboy boots. His profile sharp as a jackknife, mirror shades throwing back the world, Ben walks hard into town. No one sees him pass. The sky over his head seems to hide the man. He is New Harmony's secret messiah. A small apocalypse lives in his limbs.”

“Some religions draw by force of arms; He would draw by force of love. The attraction would not be His words, but Himself. It was His Person around which His teaching centered; not His teaching around which He would be remembered. 'Greater love than this no man hath' - that was the secret of His magnetism.”

“Panting, he looked into a face he couldn't see. "What the fuck is your problem?""I'm bored." With that, she head-butted him right in the goddamn nose.”

“He would be atleast sixteen-old enough to have a driver's licence- and he would have crinkles around his eyes that showed he had a sense of humor and he would be tall, the kind of boy all the other girls would like to date”

“Mr. Camphor could see that he (Freddie) was thinking, because he shut his eyes and put on a fiercely determined look. But when presently he opened his eyes, he shook his head. "No good," he said. "Thinking's like fishing. You bait your hook and throw it in the water, but if there aren't any fish around, you naturally can't catch anything. There isn't an idea around anywhere right now. I'll try again later.”