“Oh rocks!' says Molly Bloom, drumming her fingers in impatience. 'Tell us in plain words.”

“Oh! A little bird told us,' said Miss Browning. Molly knew that little bird from her childhood, and had always hated it, and longed to wring its neck. Why could not people speak out and say that they did not mean to give up the name of their informant?”

“Other people can’t cause us to be impatient unless we let them do so. In other words, others don’t make us impatient. We make ourselves impatient, through our expectations and demands, fixated attachments and stuckness.”

“Next moment he was standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him. It was saying, "To die will be an awfully big adventure.”

“Think of a rock polisher, one of those drums, goes round and round, rolls twenty-four/seven, full of water and rocks and gravel. Grinding it all up. Round and round. Polishing those ugly rocks into gemstones. That’s the earth. Why it goes around. We’re the rocks. And what happens to us—the drama and pain and joy and war and sickness and victory and abuse—why, that’s just the water and sand to erode us. Grind us down. To polish us up, nice and bright.”

“Jack lifts his mug. Me an Ike do the same.To Molly Pratt, says Jack.Ike scowls at him. Watch yer mouth, he says.Jeez, Ike, says Jack. All I’m sayin is … to Molly Pratt.Ike looks sly. Leans in an waggles his eyebrows. To Molly Pratt, he says, an her frilly red bloomers.One helluva woman, says Jack.One helluva pair of undies, says Ike.Then they throw their drinks down their necks.”