“The hydrangeas are clipped for the winter and there is a gardener with rum on his breath (and odd socks on his feet) who offers to show you the scars on his back, the droppings of a wallaby, the scratchings of a bandicoot or a leech which he will pull inside out with the aid of a twig- "T'only way to kill'un, missus.”

“Through his pierced brain the breezes sang Will you drop dead you pig of a sell-out But from the sky as black as the forehead of his fathers no crayfish came to the aid of his lobsters”

“He steps back and sits in the chair in the corner. His grin is smug and cocky. He sits with his legs spread, like before."Undress." He watches me.I take a deep breath and pull my shirt off, dropping it to the floor next to my jacket.”

“If He ever did come back, if He ever dared to show His face, or his Glyph, or whatever in the Garden again— if after all this destruction, if after all the terrible days of this terrible century, He returned to see how much suffering His abandonment had created, if all He has to offer is death, you should sue the bastard. That’s my only contribution to all this theology: sue the bastard for walking out. How dare He.”

“Evan Handler's new book is simply wonderful. He pulls you inside his life, and you come out his very close friend.”

“She spoke under her breath to Nick. "Is there a reason he's only wearing one sock?" "He puked on his foot." "Oh." She turned back to Huxley. "Can we get you another sock? Maybe a blanket or something?”