Top 15 Lisa Mason Quotes

Prostitution has little to do with morality, and everything to do with poverty.

If women go into politics, they’ll wind up as bad as men.

My angel," he says, cradling her. "I'm not an angel, Daniel." "Yes, you are." "No! I'm not an angel and I'm not a whore. I have intelligence and passion, strength and perseverance. I am capable of abstract thought, intellectual accomplishment, and artistic expression just like you, sir." He ponders that as the brougham trots up Fifth Street to Market. "What shall I call you, then?" Zhu smiles. "You may call me a woman.

What is the value of a life when the world is burdened with twelve billion people?

What is destiny for any human being? What becomes of probabilities that collapse out of the timeline? Does destiny depend on who witnesses?

Cosmicists speak of the Great Good, equalizing humanity with all creatures and things. Does a cosmicist accept the death of a child as the same as—say—the destruction of a butterfly? Suppose it’s a rare butterfly and the child is one of twelve billion.

He uncorks the absinthe, pours three rounds.…
“After the first glass you see things as you wish they were. After the second, you see things as they are not. After the third, you see things as they really are, which is the most horrible thing in the world.”

The future survives because people care. Live responsibly or die.

Boredom," he says, "is the province of the unimaginative soul.

That’s what failure did to: run you out, plucked your bones, sucked you dry. It was revolting. A failed man is a loathsome thing.

When you finally cash it in Out in Frisco;
And you end this life of sin Out in Frisco;
They will gently toll a bell,
Plant your carcass in a dell,
There’s no need to go to hell, You’re in Frisco.

By the time people could speak about mandatory population control in a rational way, it was too late.

Junk does that. Junk is a forge. You enter the fire and come out twisted.

Since they were little, wishing on the first star of the evening, they both understood this: the most exciting game in life is to invent yourself.

I have not told the police about it. Every member of the police department I have encountered during my stay in San Francisco has been nearly as surly and intractable as my rapist friend, because I look like a hippie. Each time I attempted to explain myself I was rebuffed or threatened.
From this experience I am tempted to draw an odd analogy: under stress, neither the policeman nor the rapist allows an opportunity for rational communication. Each one relies on violence to make to make his impression. This is not an accident, but, rather evidence of a widespread sickness. When will violence stop long enough for communication to begin? On second thought, perhaps I am doing the police department a grave disservice in not attempting to put them in contact with the rapist. Maybe, with just a little mind-bending, that rapist would make a damned good cop, and both could swagger together, true soul brothers, under the many-colored cloak of Fascism.