“Hey, it's me. Just checking if you were dead. If you aren't, call me. If you are, call me anyway.”

“Um . . . guys? If I, say, noticed a crack in a wall in a tunnel and a cold, creepy draft came out of it and it smelled like three-day-old lasagna, would you, um, want to know about that?” Murdock and I exchanged glances. “You invited him,” I said. “Show us the crack, Joe,” Murdock said. Joe turned around and lowered his loincloth.”

“If I have to hear one more story about what great fun it was working with you 'back in the city,' which I assume he means that slab of concrete and garbage on the Hudson River, I will not be responsible for the removal of his tongue.”

“Most druids fall into two groups: sticks or stones. Wood has some wonderful properties, but it has a tendency to react too much with the user for my particular taste. Because they retain some of their own innate essence, using wands becomes almost a partnership. You have to be very nature-oriented to use them to their best advantage.”

“...it can be so boring being you sometimes, and if you were the most special thing like that, it could be really great, but maybe some people say the same thing about you, and you want to tell those people: 'No, you're stupid, it's no fun being me.”

“I wanted to save myself from that drug that contaminates the body and veins and not from the other drug, you know that drug that enters through your eyes and your private area, the one that settles into your heart to screw it up, that damn drug that naive people call love. The stupid drug that’s just as dangerous and deadly as the one that you find on the streets wrapped up in little packages.”

“What's your name?" "Becky Thatcher. What's yours? Oh, I know. It's Thomas Sawyer." "That's the name they lick me by. I'm Tom when I'm good. You call me Tom, will you?" "Yes”