Marquette Frye had lived in Los Angeles for eight years, but he was still a stranger in the city. He had grown up in the coal-mining town of Hanna, Wyoming, where every one of the 625 residents was a neighbor to everyone else, and he had had a sense of belonging. Not here. Here he didn't know what he was. He didn't know what he was, because he didn't know what he could be, or what he was supposed to be. He had no plan, because it seemed to him as if he had been dumped into a dead end - a dead end with but one exit: an exit that both frightened and repelled him.
- From Rivers of Blood, Years of Darkness by Robert Conot