The Pale King: An Unfinished Novel

It occurred to Sylvanshine that the window held a faint oblique reflection of him and that the alpha of the two men was amusing himself slightly by addressing Sylvanshine’s reflection as if it were him, while the hamster affected the facial expression of address but said nothing.

The one who’d asked had a sideburn and the invulnerable smile of someone who’s had two airport cocktails and nothing but nuts.

‘Gentlemen, welcome to the world of reality—there is no audience. No one to applaud, to admire. No one to see you. Do you understand? Here is the truth—actual heroism receives no ovation, entertains no one. No one queues up to see it. No one is interested.’

The counter woman, who was in her early thirties and had incorporated her weight into a country mother presentation that involved pink cheeks and a laugh like a roar and a worldly good-humored sexuality, asked if she had any fuel today.

I do not much care whether you like me—I myself dislike storytellers whose chief concern is that they themselves be liked or thought a clever storyteller.

What had kept his father from being an actual alcoholic was that being an actual alcoholic would have taken too much effort.

There was a horrific piece of graffiti incised with knife or leather punch in the plastic of the seatback in front of me, which I looked at twice and then made a point of never looking directly at again.

It is the key to modern life. If you are immune to boredom, there is literally nothing you cannot accomplish.

The bus had a lavatory in the wayback rear, which no one ever made any attempt to use, and I remember consciously deciding to trust that the passengers had good reason for not using it instead of venturing in and discovering that reason for myself. Empiricism has its limits.