"'Fuck you,' I said to the outhouse. "'All I want is a ride down the river'" (Trout Fishing in America, Red Lip, pg. 6.)

"'The three of us huddled in the park, talking. They were both broken-down artists from New Orleans where they had drawn pictures of tourists in Pirate's Alley. Now in San Francisco, witrh the cold autumn wind upon them, they had decided that the future held only two directions: they were either going to open up a flea circus or commit themselves to an insane asylum'" (Trout Fishing in America, A Walden Pond for Winos, pg. 17.)

"He looked ninety years old for thirty years and then he got the notion that he would die, and did so. The year he died the trout didn't come up Hayman Creek, and never went up the creek again. With the old man dead, the trout figured it was...