- Old Man: All I am, really, is a trash heap of the mediocre, the third-rate, the hand-me-down, useless and chromed-over slush and junk, of a race track civilization that ran last over a precipice and still hasn't struck bottom.
- Young Man in Park: What's wrong with you?
- Old Man: I remember limes and lemons, that's what's wrong with me.
- Old Man: But roses grow from blood manure, and mediocre must be so that most excellent fine can bloom. And I shall be the best mediocre there is. And I'll fight all those who say, slide back, slip under, dust wallow, let brambles scurry over your living grave. No, I shall protest!
- Self - Introduction: I have what seems to be total recall from the moment of my birth, but if it should falter, the toys, the trivia that surround me in my workroom, help me remember back to the moment of my birth, help me to remember back sixty years. But what if I lost all these in a fire? Then I'd be forced to rely on sheer memory alone. But what about everyone else? Would they choose to remember, or prefer to forget? Would my memories be a threat to them? To find the answer, I wrote "To the Chicago Abyss."