“I’m really alive! he thought. I never knew it before, or if I did I don’t remember!”

“I hate being clever, thought the captain, when you don’t really feel clever and don’t want to be clever. To sneak around andmake plans and feel big about making them. I hate this feeling of thinking I’m doing right when I’m not really certain I am. Whoare we, anyway? The majority? Is that the answer? The majority is always holy, is it not? Always, always; just never wrong forone little insignificant tiny moment, is it? Never ever wrong in ten million years? He thought: What is this majority and who are init? And what do they think and how did they get that way and will they ever change and how the devil did I get caught in thisrotten majority? I don’t feel comfortable. Is it claustrophobia, fear of crowds, or common sense? Can one man be right, while allthe world thinks they are right? Let’s not think about it. Let’s crawl around and act exciting and pull the trigger. There, and there!”

“I’m ALIVE. Thinking about it, noticing it, is new. You do things and don’t watch. Then all of a sudden you look and see what you’re doing and it’s the first time, really.”

“I want to feel all there is to feel, he thought. Let me feel tired, now, let me feel tired. I mustn't forget, I'm alive, I know I'm alive, I mustn't forget it tonight or tomorrow or the day after that.”

“And I thought about books. And for the first time I realized that a man was behind each one of the books. A man had to think them up. A man had to take a long time to put them down on paper. And I'd never even thought that thought before.”

“Have I said anything I started out to say about being good? God, I don’t know. A stranger is shot in the street, you hardly move to help. But if half an hour before, you spent just ten minutes with the fellow and knew a little about him and his family, you might just jump in front of his killer and try to stop it. Really knowing is good. Not knowing, or refusing to know, is bad, or amoral, at least. You can’t act if you don’t know. Acting without knowing takes you right off the cliff.”

“If I’d found out that Norman Mailer liked me, I’d have killed myself. I think he was too hung up. I’m glad Kurt Vonnegut didn’t like me either. He had problems, terrible problems. He couldn’t see the world the way I see it. I suppose I’m too much Pollyanna, he was too much Cassandra. Actually I prefer to see myself as the Janus, the two-faced god who is half Pollyanna and half Cassandra, warning of the future and perhaps living too much in the past—a combination of both. But I don’t think I’m too over optimistic.”