A Prayer for Owen Meany
It was Owen Meany who kept me out of Vietnam—a trick that only Owen could have managed.
"JUST THINK OF THIS AS MY LITTLE GIFT TO YOU"—that was how he put it.
It makes me ashamed to remember that I was angry with him for taking my armadillo's claws. God knows, Owen gave me more than he ever took from me—even when you consider that he took my mother. (2.509-511)
It is amazing to me, now, how such wild imaginings and philosophies—inspired by a night charged with frights and calamities—made such perfectly good sense to Owen Meany and me; but good friends are nothing to each other if they are not supportive. (5.380)
"Was there a date on the gravestone?" I asked him. He gave himself away by hesitating.
"NO," he said.
"What was the date, Owen?" I asked him. He hesitated again.
"THERE WAS NO DATE," Owen said. I wanted to cry—not because I believed a single thing about his stupid "vision," but because it was the first time he had lied to me. (5.394-397)