I breathed the air of history all unaware, and walked oblivious through its littered layers.

Are you living just a little and calling that life?

[Insects] are not only cold-blooded, and green- and yellow-blooded, but are also cased in a clacking horn. They have rigid eyes and brains strung down their backs. But they make up the bulk of our comrades-at-life, so I look to them for a glimmer of companionship.

In literary history, generation follows generation in a rage.

There are no events but thoughts and the heart's hard turning, the heart's slow learning where to love and whom. The rest is merely gossip, and tales for other times.

Private life, book life, took place where words met imagination without passing through the world.

The novel is a game or joke shared between author and reader.