"I say the word, you know, over and over again to myself. Dead - dead - dead - dead - DEAD. And soon it hasn't got any meaning - not any meaning at all. It's just a funny little word like the breaking off of a rotten branch. DEAD - DEAD - DEAD - DEAD. It's like a tom-tom, isn't it, beating in the jungle. Dead - dead - dead - dead - dead - ..."

One more, Hobbs. This one courtesy of Paul Auster.

He's no one, I said to myself, finally giving up. And then, out of the blue, buy some muddled chain of reasoning, I finished the thought by adding: and if he's no one, then he must be Fanshawe. I laughed out loud at my joke. Ever on the alert, Fayaway laughed with me. I knew that nothing could be more absurd, but I said it again: Fanshawe. And then again: Fanshawe. And the more I said it, the more it pleased me to say it. Each time the word came out of my mouth, another burst of laughter followed. I was intoxicated by the sound of it; it drove me to a pitch of raucousness, and little by little Fayaway seemed to grow confused. She had probably thought I was referring to some sexual practice, making some joke she couldn't understand, but my repetitions had gradually robbed the word of its meaning, and she began to hear it as a threat. I looked at the man across the room and spoke the word again. My happiness was immeasurable. I exulted in the sheer falsity of my assertion, celebrating the new power I had just bestowed upon myself. I was the sublime alchemist who could change the world at will.This man was Fanshawe because I said he was Fanshawe, and that was all there was to it.

(The New York Trilogy)