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She was the kind of fatally pretty and nubile wraithlike figure who glides through the sweaty junior-high corridors of every nocturnal emitter’s dreamscape.
legs which not even orange Keds with purple-glitter-encrusted laces could make unserious.
A vision in a sundress and silly shoes. Mildred L. Bonk.
Mildred Bonk got high in the afternoon and watched serial-cartridges, and Bruce Green had a steady job at Leisure Time Ice, and for a while life was more or less one big party.
I’ll say God seems to have a kind of laid-back management style I’m not crazy about. I’m pretty much anti-death. God looks by all accounts to be pro-death. I’m not seeing how we can get together on this issue, he and I,
‘Mario, what do you get when you cross an insomniac, an unwilling agnostic, and a dyslexic.’ ‘I give.’ ‘You get somebody who stays up all night torturing himself mentally over the question of whether or not there’s a dog.’
there are two ways to lower a flag to half-mast. Are you listening? Because no shit I really have to sleep here in a second. So listen—one way to lower the flag to half-mast is just to lower the flag. There’s another way though. You can also just raise the pole. You can raise the pole to like twice its original height. You get me? You understand what I mean, Mario?’
last night’s Subject
He uses his smaller right arm to eat and drink. His oversized left arm and big left leg remain at rest at all times in the morning.
Really huge roaches. Armored-vehicle-type bugs.
a certain Latin-origin breed of sinister tropical flying roaches, that were small and timid but could fucking fly,
These worst mornings with cold floors and hot windows and merciless light—the soul’s certainty that the day will have to be not traversed but sort of climbed, vertically, and then that going to sleep again at the end of it will be like falling, again, off something tall and sheer.
Mrs. Avril M. T. Incandenza’s,
Their last morning together, right before he’d mailed her child an expensive toy and then had his phone number changed,
SCHIZOPHRENIA: MIND OR BODY?’
dyed-in-the-wool paranoid schizophrenic
decide what kind of expensive present to mail the Subject’s kid.
Hal likes to get high in secret, but a bigger secret is that he’s as attached to the secrecy as he is to getting high.
there’s no way someone can seriously abuse a substance and perform at top scholarly and athletic levels,
Since the place’s inception, there’s always been a certain percentage of the high-caliber adolescent players at E.T.A. who manage their internal weathers chemically.
whenever there’s a match- and demand-free weekend, to basically short out the whole motherboard and blow out all the circuits and slowly recover and be almost neurologically reborn and start the gradual cycle all over again… this circular routine, if your basic wiring’s OK to begin with, can work surprisingly well throughout adolescence and sometimes into one’s like early twenties, before it starts to creep up on you.
Incandenza by any means—are involved with recreational substances, is the point. Like who isn’t, at some life-stage, in the U.S.A. and Interdependent regions, in these troubled times, for the most part.
Some persons can give themselves away to an ambitious pursuit and have that be all the giving-themselves-away-to-something they need to do. Though sometimes this changes as the players get older and the pursuit more stress-fraught. American experience seems to suggest that people are virtually unlimited in their ne...
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given all this it’s not hard to see why internal drug-enforcement at E.T.A. tends to be flaccid.
Like most North Americans of his generation, Hal tends to know way less about why he feels certain ways about the objects and pursuits he’s devoted to than he does about the objects and pursuits themselves.
He sits there, attached to a congealed supper, watching, at 0020h., having now wet both his pants and the special recliner.
The reason being it’s a lot easier to fix something if you can see it.
It was in short a real cock-tease of a home, burglary-wise, for a drug addict.
D. W. Gately disastrously decides to go ahead and allow a nonviolent burglary to become in effect a robbery—which the operative legal difference involves either violence or the coercive threat of same—and
and sure enough the towels are two drawers under the spoons,
why does everybody keep the serious mailing supplies in the drawer nearest the kitchen phone?—and
his vision’s circle shrink as a red aperture around his sight rotates steadily in from the edges, at the height of which he could think only, despite the pain and panic, of what a truly dumb and silly way this was, after all this time, to die, a thought which the towel and tape denied expression via the rueful grin with which the best men meet the dumbest ends—this
the sort of a hell of a deep-shit mess that can turn a man’s life right around.
Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment: InterLace Telentertainment, 932/1864 R.I.S.C. power-TPs w/ or w/o console, Pink2, post-Primestar D.S.S. dissemination, menus and icons, pixel-free Internet Fax, tri- and quad-modems w/ adjustable baud, Dissemination-Grids, screens so high-def you might as well be there, cost-effective videophonic conferencing, internal Froxx CD-ROM, electronic couture, all-in-one consoles, Yushityu nanoprocessors, laser chromotography, Virtual-capable media-cards, fiber-optic pulse, digital encoding, killer apps; carpal neuralgia, phosphenic migraine, gluteal
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He feverishly mentally calls down various cosmic retributions on Rader.
It’s one of those unpleasant opioid feverish half-sleep states, more a fugue-state than a sleep-state, less a floating than like being cast adrift on rough seas, tossed mightily in and out of this half-sleep where your mind’s still working and you can ask yourself whether you’re asleep even as you dream. And any dreams you do have seem ragged at the edges, gnawed on, incomplete.
whatever it is is not evil for them.
the flashlight with your name in maternal cursive plays over every cm.
a face in the floor there all the time but unfelt by all others and unseen by you until you knew just as you felt it didn’t belong and was evil: Evil.
And then its mouth opens at your light.
you lie there, awake and almost twelve, believing with all your might.
At some point it starts sounding like the crowd’s roaring at its own roar, a doubling-back quality like something’ll blow.
favorable distortions in body-image.
The umpire whispers Please Play. We sort of play. But it’s all hypothetical, somehow. Even the ‘we’ is theory: I never get quite to see the distant opponent, for all the apparatus of the game.
a professional manner somewhere between bland and deep,
Ideation and Intent,
Three determined attempts and a course of shock spelled no such case here. The doctor’s interior state was somewhere between trepidation and excitement, which manifested outwardly as a sort of blandly deep puzzled concern.
She said I was on the floor flushed red and all wet like when I was a newborn; she said she thought at first she hallucinated me as a newborn again. On my side all red and wet.’
sarcasm and jokes were often the bottle in which clinical depressives sent out their most plangent screams for someone to care and help them.
‘I wasn’t trying to hurt myself. I was trying to kill myself. There’s a difference.’
