You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination.

Debut: the first time a young girl is seen drunk in public.

No such thing as a man willing to be honest - that would be like a blind man willing to see.

It was a grey day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon. The trees and clouds were carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the Grecian urn.

the cracked plate has to be retained in the pantry, has to be kept in service as a household necessity. It can never be warmed on the stove nor shuffled with the other plates in the dishpan; it will not be brought out for company but it will do to hold crackers late at night or to go into the ice-box with the left overs.

You're the only girl I've seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming.

It's a mining town in lotus land.