Quotes from Christopher Moore

Which is why you chose to wear that delightful ensemble from the skank-wear collection at Hoes-n-Thangs? -Tommy

All men are evil, that's what I was talking to my father about. What did he say? Fuck 'em. Really? Yeah. At least he answered you. I got the feeling that he thinks it's my problem now. Makes you wonder why he didn't burn that on one of the tablets. 'HERE, MOSES, HERE'S THE TEN COMMANDMENTS, AND HERE'S AN EXTRA ONE THAT SAYS FUCK 'EM.' He doesn't sound like that.

Hope is merely another face of desire. And desire is a motherfucker.

Like looking down on a lubricious chess set, isn't it? The king moves in tiny steps, with no direction, like a drunkard trying to avoid the archer's bolt. The others work their strategies and wait for the old man to fall. He has no power, yet all power moves in his orbit and to his mad whim. Do you know there's no fool piece on the chessboard, Kent? Methinks the fool is the player, the mind above the moves.

It was sometimes difficult to reconcile a man's talents with his personality.

WARNING This is a bawdy tale. Herein you will find gratuitous shagging, murder, spanking, maiming, treason, and heretofore unexplored heights of vulgarity and profanity, as well as non-traditional grammar, split infinitives, and the odd wank. If that sort of thing bothers you, then gentle reader pass by, for we endeavor only to entertain, not to offend. That said, if that's the sort of thing you think you might enjoy, then you have happened upon the perfect story!

Confucius is like the Torah, rules to follow. And Lao-Tzu is even more conservative, saying that if you do nothing you won't break any rules. You have to let tradition fall sometime, you have to take action, you have to eat bacon.

Love them all, said Renoir. That is the secret, young man. Love them all. The painter let go of his arm and shrugged. Then, even if your paintings are shit, you will have loved them all.

Moi?, said I, in perfect fucking French.

She set the course of his life with just a smile.

Ydych chi'n cymryd cerdynnau credid? said the highwayman, no doubt trying to frighten me further, his consonants chained like anal beads strung out of hell's own bunghole.

She pulled down the blanket and aimed baby Sophie's bottom at him like she might unleash a fusillade of weapons-grade poopage such as the guileless Beta Male had never seen.

If they'd been dogs, they would have all been in the yard eating grass and trying to yak up whatever was making them feel so lousy. Not a bone gnawed, not a ball chased-all tails went unwagged. Oh, life is a fast cat, a short leash, a flea in that place where you just can't scratch.

I tried cutting myself to express my heartbreak over Tommy (Lord Flood) rejecting me, but OMFG it hurts like flaming fuck.

Mr. Fresh sat down on the stool behind the counter and stared into the eyes of the cardboard cutout of Cher, hoping to find answers there. But the bitch was holding out.

Paint only what you see,' his hero Millet had admonished. 'Imagination is a burden to a painter,' Auguste Renoir had told him. 'Painters are craftsmen, not storytellers. Paint what you see.' Ah, but what they hadn't said, hadn't warned him about, was how much you could see.

You were supposed to empathize with your friend's problem, but they were, after all, your friend's problems...

she is too beautiful, I think, to not be inherently evil.

Tommy had felt alone in a crowd before, even inferior to everyone in a crowd, but now he felt, well, different. It wasn't just the clothes and the make up, it was the humanity. He wasn't part of it. Heightened senses or not, he felt like he had his nose pressed against the window, looking in. The problem was, it was the window of a donut shop.

Pervy and redundant, don't you think? I asked the big gay cop, who wouldn't know a va-jay-jay if it bounced up to him and sang the Star-Spangled Banner. (You ever notice that hardly anything besides the Star-Spangled Banner is spangled? There's no, like, the Raisin-Spangled Scone, or the Flea-Spangled Beagle. I'm just saying.) --Being the Journal of Abby Normal

It's like he has this power over me—like I have an eating disorder and he's a package of Oreo Double Stuff cookies.

The Painting is not shit,' said Lucien. 'I know,' said Henri. 'That was just part of the subterfuge. I am of royal lineage; subterfuge is one of the many talents we carry in our blood, along with guile and hemophilia.

Anger is the spirits telling you that you are alive.

So I'm all, Owned! Bee-yatch! Dog fucking owned you! Doing a minor booty dance of ownage, perhaps, in retrospect, a bit prematurely. (I believe hip-hop to be the apprpriate language for taunting, at least until I learn French.)