"You know what my problem is? I’m too nice."
"I mean here’s this stupid question just hanging out there for me, a meatball, and I’m thinking, do I play this off, pretend it’s fine, say "good question" through gritted teeth - or do I turn on that thing and jack it to the cheapies?"
"These poor fools, with their crappy notebooks, and their failing recorders, and their stinkin’ badges. Hyenas hunting for scraps. How miserable it must be to be a reporter, to get up every day confronted by the vast maw of your own ignorance and irrelevance. Not seeing the sword of Damocles is hanging right there, ready to gut that stupid question and leave the entrails hanging, a feast for the stronger journalists."
"So I keep saying maybe I should go easy on them. Maybe it’s hard enough chasing after men of purpose all your life begging for leftovers. Maybe it’s bad enough going through life knowing that when that semi truck flattens you, all you’re gonna leave behind is an archive at Slate. And not even a good archive. Sweet Cthulhu, your best hope is to someday be referred to as the poor man’s Suellentrop.”
"But then I hear again that soft, firm whisper from lovely Callista in my ear, as we looked out at the wide Aegean: ‘They are ants, my love. Ants. And ants were made for stomping. And you, Newton Leroy, were put on this earth to stomp them good.’”
"And I know she is right."
"This curbstomp’s for you, baby."