“Is it, then, your opinionWomen are putty in your hands?Is this the face to launch uponA thousand one night stands?First, please, would you be so kindAs to define your contributionTo modern verse, the Western mindAnd human institutions?Where, where is the long, flowing hair,The velvet suit, the broad bow tie;Where is the other-worldly air,Where the abstracted eye?Describe the influence on your verseOf Oscar Mudwarp’s mighty line,The theories of Susan SchmerschOr the spondee’s decline.You’ve labored to present us withThis mouse-sized volume; shall this equalThe epic glories of Joe Smith?He’s just brought out a sequel.Where are the beard, the bongo drums,Tattered T-shirt and grubby sandals,As who, released from Iowa, comesTo tell of wondrous scandals?Have you subversive, out of date,Or controversial ideas?And can you really pull your weightAmong such minds as these?Ah, what avails the tenure race,Ah, what the Ph.D.,When all departments have a placeFor nincompoops like thee?”

“Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of this stuff?' said Zacharias Smith. 'Here's an idea,' said Ron loudly, 'why don't you shut your mouth?' 'Well, we've all turned up to learn from him, and now he's telling us he can't really do any of it,' he said. 'That's not what he said,' said Fred Weasley. 'Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?' inquired George, pulling a long and lethal-looking metal instrument from inside one of the Zonko's bags. 'Or any part of your body, really, we're not fussy where we stick this,' said Fred.”

“Have you ever had one of those moments when time just freezes? Youknow, when the world suddenly goes deathly still, and you could hear apin drop, and the squishing sound your heart makes is so loud in yourears you feel like youre drowning in blood, and you stand there in thatsuspended moment and die a thousand deaths, but not really, and themoment passes and dumps you out on the other side of it, with yourmouth hanging open, and an erased blackboard where your mind used tobe?”

“All serious poker players try to minimize their tells, obviously. There are a couple ways to go about this. One is the robotic approch: where your face becomes a mask and your voice a monotone, at least while the hand is being played. . . . The other is the manic method, where you affect a whole bunch of tics, twitches, and expressions, and mix them up with a river of insane babble. The idea is to overwhelm your opponents with clues, so they can't sort out what's going on. This approach can be effective, but for normal people it's hard to pull off. (If you've spent part of your life in an institution, this method may come naturally.)”

“An admirable idea! Mr. Worthing, there is just one question I would like to be permitted to put to you. Where is your brother Ernest? We are both engaged to be married to your brother Ernest, so it is a matter of some importance to us to know where your brother Ernest is at present.”

“When you're scared - and I mean really scared, not just hearing a noise in the night, or standing toe to toe with someone twice your size who wants to pound you into the earth - it feels as if you're being injected with darkness. It's like black water as cold as ice settling in your body where your blood and marrow used to be, pushing every other feeling out as it fills you from your feet to your scalp. It leaves you with nothing.”

“Have you ever gotten to a point where you looked at your own life, thought "Fu** this," and reached for the economy-sized Valium? Ah, suicide. So dark and seductive.”