the corporate accountant with the unbelievable undulating daughter

[...] Now that it's become undeniably apparent even to me that I have a son who lends to the expression "fruit of my loins" whole new vistas of meaning [...]

achieving full ontological status only in subsequent union

Lenore's own private well of emotional cathex

[...] I recall that at this point her mechanical chair on its track was caused to move toward the door of the inner office of Dr. Jay--whose fondness for useless gadgets would, I'm convinced, be of significant interest to his colleagues--and we called goodbye. [...]

[...] I made obscene amounts of money for the House, rose to such dizzying editorial heights that my salary became almost enough to live on. [...]

[...] I'll be murdered if he knows I told. I'll end up in a thousand jars of the whipped lamb, while the little Foamwhistles ironically starve.

[...] she studied classics and philosophy and who knows what else under a mad crackpot genius named Wittgenstein, who believed that everything was words. Really. If your car would not start, it was apparently to be understood as a language problem. If you were unable to love, you were lost in language. Being constipated equalled being clogged with linguistic sediment. To me the whole thing smacks strongly of bullshit [...] Words and a book and a belief that the world is words and Lenore's conviction that her own intimate personal world is only of, neither by nor for, her. Something is not right. She is in pain. I would like the old lady to die in her sleep.

[...] 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. [...]

This was the world the monadic Vance Virogous received and mirrored through himself