Metzger flashed her a big wry couple rows of teeth. “Looks don’t mean anything anymore,” he said. “I live inside my looks, and I’m never sure. The possibility haunts me.”
“And how often,” Oedipa inquired, now aware it was all words, “has that line of approach worked for you, Baby Igor?”
(from The Crying of Lot 49, page 21, by Thomas Pynchon.)
Chris Cocca 