“As an old, old man, Trout would be asked by Dr. Thor Lembrig, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, if he feared the future. He would give this reply: 'Mr. Secretary-General, it is the past which scares the bejesus out of me.”

“Trout sat back and thought about the conversation. He shaped it into a story, which he never got around to writing until he was an old, old man. It was about a planet where the language kept turning into pure music, because the creatures there were so enchanted by sounds. Words became musical notes. Sentences became melodies. They were useless as conveyors of information, because nobody knew or cares what the meanings of words were anymore. So leaders in government and commerce, in order to function, had to invent new and much uglier vocabularies and sentence structures all the time, which would resist being transmuted to music.”

“We went to the New York World's Fair, saw what the past had been like, according to the Ford Motor Car Company and Walt Disney, saw what the future would be like, according to General Motors. And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.”

“Trout did another thing which some people might have considered eccentric: he called mirrors leaks. It amused him to pretend that mirrors were holes between two universes.If he saw a child near a mirror, he might wag his finger at a child warningly, and say with great solemnity, "Don't get too near that leak. You wouldent want to wind up in the other universe, would you?"Sometimes somebody would say in his presence, "Excuse me, I have to take a leak." This was a way of saying that the speaker intended to drain liquid wastes from his body through a valve in his lower abdomen.And trout would reply waggishly, "where I come from, that means you're about to steal a mirror."And so on”

“All these people talk so eloquently about getting back to good old-fashioned values. Well, as an old poop I can remember back to when we had those old-fashioned values, and I say let's get back to the good old-fashioned First Amendment of the good old-fashioned Constitution of the United States -- and to hell with the censors! Give me knowledge or give me death!”

“What are you?' Trout asked the boy scornfully. 'Some kind of gutless wonder?' This, too, was the title of a book by Trout, The Gutless Wonder. It was about a robotwho had bad breath, who became popular after his halitosis was cured. But what madethe story remarkable, since it was written in 1932, was that it predicted the widespreaduse of burning jellied gasoline on human beings. It was dropped on them from airplanes. Robots did the dropping. They had noconscience, and no circuits which would allow them to imagine what was happening tothe people on the ground. Trout's leading robot looked like a human being, and could talk and dance and so on,and go out with girls. And nobody held it against him that he dropped jellied gasoline onpeople. But they found his halitosis unforgivable. But then he cleared that up, and he waswelcomed to the human race.”

“Young Castle called me "Scoop." "Good Morning, Scoop. What's new in the word game?""I might ask the same of you," I replied."I'm thinking of calling a general strike of all writers until mankind finally comes to its senses. Would you support it?""Do writers have a right to strike? That would be like the police or the firemen walking out.""Or the college professors.""Or the college professors," I agreed. I shook my head. "No, I don't think my conscience would let me support a strike like that. When a man becomes a writer, I think he takes a sacred obligation to produce beauty and enlightenment and comfort at top speed.""I just can't help thinking what a real shake up it would give people if, all of a sudden, there were no new books, new plays, new histories, new poems...""And how proud would you be when people started dying like flies?" I demanded."They'd die more like mad dogs, I think--snarling & snapping at each other & biting their own tails."I turned to Castle the elder. "Sir, how does a man die when he's deprived of the consolation of literature?""In one of two ways," he said, "petrescence of the heart or atrophy of the nervous system.""Neither one very pleasant, I expect," I suggested."No," said Castle the elder. "For the love of God, both of you, please keep writing!”