It was the essence of life to disbelieve in death for one's self, to act as if life would continue forever. And life had to act also as if little issues were big ones. To take a realistic attitude toward life and death meant that one lapsed into unreality. Into insanity. It was ironic that the only way to keep one's sanity was to ignore that one was in an insane world or to act as if the world were sane.

Imagination is like a muscle. I found out that the more I wrote, the bigger it got.

The truth is that Trout, like Vonnegut and Ray Bradbury and many others, writes parables. These are set in frames which have become called, for no good reason, science fiction. A better generic term would be 'future fairy tales'. And even this is objectionable, since many science fiction stories take place in the present or the past, far and near.

It is no idle phrase that man was made in God's image. There is something worth saving in the worst of us, and out of this something a new man may be fashioned.

This story is about love, which means that it is also about hate.

Invincible ignorance always upset him, even though he knew he should just laugh at it.

You had to make your choice between survival and efficiency, though in the long run survival was optimum efficiency, no matter how much time and effort it took.

It was a shameful thing that she had nothing of which to be ashamed.

Actually, the situation was intolerable. But then it was surprising how much intolerableness a man could tolerate.

Experience was something it was difficult to avoid, though many people had managed to keep it to a minimum.