I was wondering — I mean — could there be some mistake? Because nobody called me and Scrubb, you know. It was we who asked to come here. You would not have called me unless I had been calling you.

Love, while always forgiving of imperfections and mistakes, can never cease to will their removal.

There seems no plan because it is all plan.

And as Jill gazed at its motionless bulk, she realized that she might as well have asked the whole mountain to move aside for her convenience.

Grief ... gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn't seem worth starting anything. I can't settle down. I yawn, I fidget, I smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now there is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness.

It is in their 'good' characters that novelists make, unawares, the most shocking self- revelations.

In your world, I have another name. You should know me by it.