Philip K. Dick

You're killing yourself with cynicism. Your idols got taken away from you one by one and now you have nothing to give your love to.

But frankly—may I so speak?—your CIA people's theory strikes me as a miserable bundle of random suspicions, a few separate facts strung together by an intricate structure of ad hoc theorizing, in which everyone is credited with enormous powers for intrigue. A much simpler view can be entertained with more common sense, and as a CIA employee you must be aware that, like all intelligence agencies, it lacks the faculty of common sense.

You must beware of seeing malice behind accidental injury.

“There’s a law,” Chuck said, “which I call Rittersdorf’s Third Law of Diminished Returns, which states that proportional to how long you hold a job you imagine that it has progressively less and less importance in the scheme of things.”

Hands in his pockets he began to walk aimlessly down the sidewalk runnel. And, each minute, feeling more and more scared and desperate. Everything was falling apart around him. And he seemed helpless to halt the collapse; he could only witness it, completely impotent, snatched up and gripped by processes too powerful for him to understand.

“Hasn’t all this taught you anything?” Annette asked Gabriel Baines as they waited for the simulacrum's return and report.

“Like what?”

“That there is no perfect defense. There is no protection. Being alive means being exposed; it’s the nature of life to be hazardous—it’s the stuff of living.

Here, the enemy was not merely another group of human beings with a differing political persuasion; the enemy here was death.

[Fiction] Appeals to the base lusts that hide in everyone no matter how respectable on the surface.

There is evil! It's actual, like cement.

“How come you didn’t recognize me?” Hentman said crossly. “Aren’t I world-famous? Or maybe you don’t watch TV.”

We can travel anywhere we want, even to other planets. And for what? To sit day after day, declining in morale and hope. Falling into an interminable ennui.

Insanity — to have to construct a picture of one's life, by making inquiries of others.