Madness to us means reversion; to such people as Una and Lena it meant progression. Now their uncle had entered into a land beyond them, the land of fancy. For fifty years he had been as they were, silent, hard-working, unimaginative. Then all of a sudden, like a scholar passing his degree, he had gone up into another form.

None of us suffers as much as we should, or loves as much as we say. Love is the first lie; wisdom the last.

Life, the permission to know death.

Man is the only thing that has no further use after something goes amiss.

Sleep demands of us a guilty immunity.

Why is it that whenever I hear music I think I’m a bride?

I have a narrative, but you will be put to it to find it.