“How did you do it?” I asked.
“With a hatchet. I hit him on the brow and he fell down dead. Then I pushed him over the edge of the roof.” Phillip put his hands over his ears and pressed hard. “I did this for three seconds so I wouldn’t hear him fall in the yard.” He winced and made a face. “I heard it nonetheless.”
We walked out of the Anchor Bar, crossed the street and started up 17th Street. In a play court on the right, a whole platoon of little children were seesawing and playing hopscotch and wading in a pool in the hot sun. Philip smiled at the children. I knew he was thinking of himself as a murderer.
– Jack Kerouac
A somber, ash-scattering scene would make a heaven-sent ending for the obituary of a nut.
There’d been hardly a fruitcake trail he hadn’t followed to its bleak end, every paranormal idiocy, by his blurred lights, worthy of full investigation.
– Thomas H. Cook
“The White Woman,” he said. A very young woman in a stiff white garment was kneeling by the stream, holding a jagged strip of jawbone filled with squat, gleaming teeth. Even in the pale light under the trees, her hair was an extraordinary red.
She wrinkled a delicate nose at the stiff newness of the garment which masked, but could not conceal, a foundation young and curvilinear.
– Ruth Sawtell Wallis
“How,” he thought to himself, “would it be possible for an enormous world of life all its own to move around under our feet? For unheard-of creatures to carry on within the strongholds of the earth and be forced by the inner fires of the earth’s dark womb to grow into forms gigantic in size and powerful of mind? Could these dreadful strangers, driven up by the penetrating cold, possibly sometimes appear among us, while perhaps at the same time celestial guests, living, speaking forces of the constellations, might become visible overhead?”