Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.

If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about answers.

Life's single lesson: that there is more accident to it than a man can ever admit to in a lifetime and stay sane.

They're in love. Fuck the war.

Why should things be easy to understand?

Keep cool but care

Paranoids are not paranoid because they're paranoid, but because they keep putting themselves, fucking idiots, deliberately into paranoid situations.

The general public has long been divided into two parts; those who think that science can do anything and those who are afraid it will.

A screaming comes across the sky.

Shall I project a world?

All the animals, the plants, the minerals, even other kinds of men, are being broken and reassembled every day, to preserve an elite few, who are the loudest to theorize on freedom, but the least free of all.

Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.

It all comes down, as it must, to the desires of individual men. Oh, and women too of course, bless their empty little heads.

There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.

You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.

What, I should only trust good people? Man, good people get bought and sold every day. Might as well trust somebody evil once in a while, it makes no more or less sense.

If there is something comforting - religious, if you want - about paranoia, there is still also anti-paranoia, where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can bear for long.

Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a letter, another lover.

Though it is not often that death is so clearly told to fuck off.

Love with your mouth shut, help without breaking your ass or publicizing it: keep cool, but care.

Danger's over, Banana Breakfast is saved.

But with a sigh he had released her hand, while she was so lost in the fantasy that she hadn't felt it go away, as if he'd known the best moment to let go.

Despair came over her, as it will when nobody around has any sexual relevance to you.

He decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in.

To have humanism we must first be convinced of our humanity. As we move further into decadence this becomes more difficult.

Let the peace of this day be here tomorrow when I wake up.

It is simply wrong to begin with a theme, symbol or other abstract unifying agent, and then try to force characters and events to conform to it.

What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing? --Gravity's Rainbow, V699

Once they have you asking the wrong questions. They don't have to worry about the answers.

Some typewriters in Whitehall, in the Pentagon, killed more civilians than our little A4 could have ever hoped to.

Next worst thing to unrequited Love, isn't it? Insufficient hate.

Can't say it often enough - change your hair, change your life.

Not me, paranoia's the garlic in life's kitchen, right, you can never have too much.

This is America, you live in it, you let it happen. Let it unfurl.

Colonies are the outhouses of the European soul, where a fellow can let his pants down and relax, enjoy the smell of his own shit.

The hand of Providence creeps among the stars, giving Slothrop the finger.

... as long as American life was something to be escaped from, the cartel would always be assured a bottomless pool of new customers.

Explosion without an objective', declared Miles Blundell, 'is politics in its purest form'.

You can only cruse the boulevards of regret so far, and then you've got to get back up onto the freeway again.

Oh, this beer here is cold, cold and hop-bitter, no point coming up for air, gulp, till it's all--hahhhh.

This spiritualist, this statistician, what are you anyway?

The past, hey no shit, it's an open invitation to wine abuse.

The one Word that rips apart the day...

The object of life is to make sure you die a weird death. To make sure that, however it finds you, it finds you under very weird circumstances.

You know what a miracle is. Not what Bakunin said. But another world’s intrusion into this one. Most of the time we coexist peacefully, but when we do touch there’s cataclysm.

It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.

Hair and drug-use issues notwithstanding, I've never thought of you as any less than professional.

I am having a hallucination now, I don't need drugs for that.

Everything is some kind of a plot, man.

There is no literature and art without paranoia. Probably there would be even civilization. Paranoia is the world. It is the attempt to make sense of what has not.