Hard weather, says the old man. So let it be. Wrap me in the weathers of the earth, I will be hard and hard. My face will wash rain like the stones.

What man is such a coward he would not rather fall once than remain forever tottering?

Where men can't live gods fare no better.

Your heart's desire is to be told some mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery.

People were always getting ready for tomorrow. I didn't believe in that. Tomorrow wasn't getting ready for them. It didn't even know they were there.

Maybe. Anyway, some men get what they want. No man. Or perhaps only briefly so as to lose it. Or perhaps only to prove to the dreamer that the world of his longing made real is no longer that world at all.

Usually, you don't know where a book comes from ... it's just there, some kind of an itch that you can't quite scratch.