You can deny him, he thought, watching his father across the table. You can hate him, love him, pity him, never speak to or look at him in the eye again, never deign even to be in his crabbed and bitter presence, but you're still stuck with the son of a bitch. One way or another he'll always be your daddy, not even all-powerful death was going to change that.

If we could learn to look instead of gawking,We'd see the horror in the heart of farce,If only we could act instead of talking,We wouldn't always end up on our arse.This was the thing that nearly had us mastered;Don't yet rejoice in his defeat, you men!Although the world stood up and stopped the bastard,The bitch that bore him is in heat again.

He had been reborn into the knowledge of death; and the inescapability of change, of things-never-the-same, of no-way-back, made him afraid. When you lose the past you're naked in front of contemptuous Azraeel, the death-angel. Hold on if you can, he told himself. Cling to yesterdays. Leave your nail-marks in the grey slope as you slide.

Success sometimes may be defined as a disaster put on hold. Qualified. Has to be.

After all, if you do not resist the apparently inevitable, you will never know how inevitable the inevitable was.

This last night we tear into each other, as if to wound, as if to find the key to everything before morning.

Let us never doubt everything that ought to happen is going to happen.

There is no good arguing with the inevitable. The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.