Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.

The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?

Hope for the best, expect the worst.

I had the brief notion that his heart, pressed flat as a flower, crimson and thin as tissue paper, lay in this file. It was a very thin one.

We must all make do with the rags of love we find flapping on the scarecrow of humanity.

In the mythic schema of all relations between men and women, man proposes, and woman is disposed of.

They will be like shadows, they will be like wraiths, gray members of a congregation of nightmare; hark! his long wavering howl . . . an aria of fear made audible. The wolfsong is the sound of the rending you will suffer, in itself a murdering.