[...] he would urinate up onto my hanging necktie, a pale, sweetly thin jet, and there would be smells of powder, and my tie would be heavy at my throat, and would drip, and we would laugh together, toothless he and sad, sleepy I, at my urine-soaked tie.

[...] through the miracle of television, Vance Vigorous enjoyed a special relationship with Richard Nixon. As Watergate wore on in brilliant color, Vance took to furtive looks, pinched whiteness around the bridge of his nose, refusals to explain his whereabouts or give reasons for what he did. My tape recorder--admittedly tapeless and not even plugged in but nevertheless my tape recorder--began to appear places: under the dining room table at dinner, in the back seat of the car, under our bed, in the drawer of the mal table. Vance would, when confronted, look blankly at the tape recorder and at us. Then he would pretend to look at his watch. [...]

"Nobody's that hungry. And did he just try to bite the waiter? Was that an attempted bite?"

"Must be the light in here."

"Daughter. Interesting. Stonecipheco Baby Foods. Not a bad line of products, really. A bit soft and runny for my taste, of course. ..."

"Well, it's infant food, really, Norman."

"... but any port in the proverbial storm. Please feel free to sit down."

"Yes and also not only that each of our universes has this feature [...]"

"Lenore, please. Norman, friend, really. A universe-view is one thing. No one can grow to infinite size."

"Has anyone ever tried?"

"Not to my knowledge, no, but ..."

"Then do me a kindness not to shrilly monger finite failure until I've tried. No one had ever been able to give butter life, either, but ..."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. To be ignored. A slip of the tongue."

". . . ."

"Yes and tonight Project Total Yang beings. I am going to grow and grow and grow. There will of course eventually cease to be room for anyone else in the universe at all, which I'm afraid will also mean the two of you, for which I apologize, but say also tough titty."

"Ms. Beadsman, I am coming to like you, unless it's simply the inevitably favorable comparison of anyone with Vigorous here. Have you ever had intercourse with someone soon to be of infinite size?"

"Making me come. Me as a person," said Vlad the Impaler. "Where is that ditzy bitch?"

"Sorry about that."

LENORE: Well see, it seems like it's not really like a life that's told, not lived; it's just that the living is the telling, that there's nothing going on with me that isn't either told or tellable, and if so, why the difference, why live at all?

[...]

LENORE: Pretty keen perception. If there's nothing about me but what can be said about me, what separates me from this lady in this story Rick got [...]? She's exactly what's said about her, right? Nothing more at all. And same with me, seems like. Gramma says she's going to show me how a life is words and nothing else. Gramma says words can kill and create. Everything.

[...]

LENORE: [...] if she can do all that just by talking to me, with just words, then what does that say about words?

JAY: ". . . she said, using words."

"Gee," I say, "there are no sheets on this bed."

The mouse looks at me. "Señor," he says, "if you sheet on my bed, I will keel you."

We both laugh, and the mouse punches me on the arm.