In 1951 you couldn’t get us to talk politics. Ball players then would just as soon talk bed wetting as talk politics. Tweener Jordan brought up the H-bomb one seventh inning, sitting there tarring

I am Oberleutnant Heini Opitz of Test-Commando 16 and this is not a war story. It's the story of a lunatic revolution-the inmates with Bedlam's keys-and the boys all call me Pitz. We fly (fly? ride!) the Messerschmitt

We stop in a place called Smith’s in Paso Robles and order turkey-gumbo soup and lemon-meringue pie with black coffee. This ensemble somehow fits together although it sounds as though 

Every day, in the intense Arizona sunlight, the cars streamed by along the highway, crossing the desert towards California, and the old lady sat in a rocking-chair on the cement porch of the tourist cabin and counted them. 

Theoretically we love the forced communions of urban life. Practically we avoid them.

The first time Avram went over the bar everywhere he looked emerald Pacific Ocean was working, except for the sky-firm above all that motion and the cast of blue he imagined one would see on a television 

I’d almost forgotten why we were heading to Himeji Castle in the first place. 

It is very cold outside, though less so inside the car, it seems, with the kufiyya lying across the dashboard, forming a coiled snake ready to strike.

And so it goes, God created the heavens and the earth. 

Subject is a freak. Subject investigates own reflection: Long hair—check. Funky beard—check. Headband—check. Body odor—check.