It's a mystery to me how anyone ever gets any nourishment in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so as to be sure of not missing anything.

In my end is my beginning - that's what people are always saying. But what does it mean?

Authors were shy, unsociable creatures, atoning for their lack of social aptitude by inventing their own companions and conversations.

I have wanted . . . to commit a murder myself. I recognized this as the desire of the artist to express himself! . . . But-incongruous as it may seem to some-I was restrained and hampered by my innate sense of justice. The innocent must not suffer.

With thought, all problems can be resolved.

Self-preservation's a man's first duty. And natives don't mind dying, you know. They don't feel about it as Europeans do.

I don't know. I don't know at all. And that's what's frightening the life out of me. To have no idea.