All anybody cares about in this fucking country, he thought, is money. — Robert S. Stone

"Hey, Cecil," Pablo said, "I want to ask you something, man. Promise you won't get pissed? What do you think is the use of me?"

"De use of you?" Cecil asked, incredulous.

"The use - you know. The use of me."

"Well now . . ." Cecil began. A throb of laughter trembled in his throat. "Dat be hard to say, you know."

"Cecil, I'm the first fucker in the world knows that. But right off ... what would you say the use of me was?"

"De use of you, mon? Same as everbody. Put one foot to front of de other. Match de dolluh wif de day."

"That's all?"

"Sure dat's all. Good times, hard times. Mos' certainly dat's all."

"Don't you think everybody got some special purpose?"

"Hey," Cecil demanded, "what I look like - a preacher, mon? Purpose of you and me to be buried in de ground and das hard enough to do. Be buried in de sweet ground and not in dat ocean." They drank their rum together.

"Dreamin' be de ruin of you, sailor. Be de ruin. Old chap, you too young to be worryin' after dose tings. Be burnin' out your mind."

"It is burning," Pablo said. "Burning out."

"Go to sleep, Pablo. Go upstairs and sleep it off, mon."

"It isn't religion they need down here," Heath declared after five minutes. "They've had plenty of that. It's the pill. If this coast had half the population it has it would be in damn fine shape."

"A little cinder in the wind, Pablo - that's what you are."

"Everybody's worth something," Pablo said. "I mean - everybody's life got some meaning to it. You know - there's a reason for people."

"No kidding? A reason for you? What is it?"

"I don't know," Pablo confessed. "I ain't found out yet. But I know there is one."