Now the whole world stands on the brink staring down into bloody hell. All those liberals and intellectuals...and smooth talkers...and all of a sudden, nobody can think of anything to say. Beneath me, this awful city. It screams like an abattoir full of retarded children and the night reeks of fornication and bad consciences.
There were a million small towns like this all over the world. Each as dark, as lonely, each as removed, as full of shuddering and wonder.
What I say is, a town isn’t a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it’s got a bookstore, it knows it’s not foolin’ a soul.
lf there is any town this world would be better without, this is it.
Any town, New York, Chicago, with its people, becomes improbable with distance. Just as I am improbable here, in Illinois, in a small town by a ' quiet lake. All of us improbable to one another because we are not present to one another. And it is so good to hear the sounds, and know that Mexico City is still there and the people moving and living...
All cities are the same, and all cities are different. They all have colors.
Strapped in the chair of the city's gas chamber
Why I'm here I can't quite remember.
The surgeon general says it's hazardous to breathe
I'd have another cigarette but I can't see.
Tell me who you're going to believe?
You've seen one post-apocalyptic city, you've seen them all.