“I have heard the languages of apocalypse, and now I shall embrace the silence.”

“I sat in the dark and thought: There’s no big apocalypse. Just an endless procession of little ones.”

“Media. I think I have heard of her. Isn't she the one who killed her children?''Different woman,' said Mr. Nancy. 'Same Deal.”

“And then he said, “Media. I think I have heard of her. Isn’t she the one who killed her children?” “Different woman,” said Mr. Nancy. “Same deal.”

“I just want you to know,' said the girl, coldly, 'that whoever you are and whatever you intend with me, I shall give you no aid of any kind, nor shall I assist you, and I shall do whatever is in my power to frustrate your plans and devices.' And then she added, with feeling, 'Idiot.”

“She began to whisper something in my ear. It’s the strangest thing about poetry—you can tell it’s poetry, even if you don’t speak the language. You can hear Homer’s Greek without understanding a word, and you still know it’s poetry. I’ve heard Polish poetry, and Inuit poetry, and I knew what it was without knowing. Her whisper was like that. I didn’t know the language, but her words washed through me, perfect, and in my mind’s eye I saw towers of glass and diamond; and people with eyes of the palest green; and, unstoppable, beneath every syllable, I could feel the relentless advance of the ocean.”

“Now what?” asked Fat Charlie. “Shall we all join hands and contact the living?”