I can't feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.

The door could not be heard slamming; they had probably left it open, as is the custom in homes where a great misfortune has occurred.

Nervous states of the worst sort control me without pause. Everything that is not literature bores me and I hate it. I lack all aptitude for family life except, at best, as an observer. I have no family feeling and visitors make me almost feel as though I were maliciously being attacked.

All human errors are impatience, a premature breaking off of methodical procedure, an apparent fencing-in of what is apparently at issue.

there is nothing bad to fear; once you have crossed that threshold, all is well. Another world, and you do not have to speak

There is a destination but no way there; what we refer to as way is hesitation.

Ours is a lost generation, it may be, but it is more blameless than those earlier generations.