It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.

I was in love with a whirlwind, so when the girl threw me over, I went home and finished my novel.

A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about.

It was strange to have no self-to be like a little boy left alone in a big house, who knew that now he could do anything he wanted to do, but found that there was nothing that he wanted to do.

Life cracked like ice!

The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun.

There are no second acts in American lives.