What a joy it is to dance and sing!

He is, I think, already pondering a magisterial project: that of buggering the English language, the ultimate revenge of the colonialised.

Drosselmeier had unwittingly exposed himself to an overdose of reality, and it had destroyed his reason.

Why do you do up your hair in those tortured plaits, now, Melanie? Why? Because, she said. You know that's no answer. You're spoiling your pretty looks, pet. Come here. She did not move. He ground out his cigarette on the window-ledge and laughed. Come here, he said again, softly. So she went.

Proposition one: time is a man, space is a woman.

Is not this world an illusion? And yet it fools everybody.

In a world where women are commodities, a woman who refuses to sell herself will have the thing she refuses to sell taken away from her by force