“As for myself: I had come to the conclusion that there was nothing sacred about myself or any human being, that we were all machines, doomed to collide and collide and collide. For want of anything better to do, we became fans of collisions. Sometimes I wrote well about collisions, which meant I was a writing machine in good repair. Sometimes I wrote badly, which meant I was a writing machine in bad repair. I no more harbored sacredness than did a Pontiac, a mousetrap, or a South Bend Lathe.”

“Sometimes he wrote equations, or musical notation, sometimes he wrote in Latin; he refused to tell her what it was about. "Nothing," he said. "I have nothing important or original to say, yet I feel compelled to express myself, so I just write it down and let it go.”

“When the thing that emerged from the collision of sex and freedom, called love, collided with the thing that emerged from the collision of time and memory, called history, the dreams began to come.”

“When wanting collides with getting, that's the moment of truth. I want to collide.”

“You live in world, you collide with others. That's the way it is. We collide and sometimes someone gets hurt. They just wanted to steal a silly pair of boxers. It went wrong. For a short time, I hated them. But when you think about it, what good does that do? It takes so much hold on to hate - you lose your grip on what's important, you know?”

“He tried to press the machine into my hands, but I stepped back. He was getting too close, and besides, I didn't know what this meant. Was he trying to sell me the machine? Was he giving it to me? I had heard that in America, if a girl accepted a ring from a boy, it meant she would marry him. What about accepting a tape-playing machine? Did it mean I might have to dance with him?”