...every monologue sooner or later becomes a discussion.

Heresy is only another word for freedom of thought.

So much in writing depends on the superficiality of one's days.

Eternity is said not to be an extension of time but an absence of time, and sometimes it seemed to me that her abandonment touched that strange mathematical point of endlessness, a point with no width, occupying no space.

Pity is cruel. Pity destroys.

I wrote at the start that this was a record of hate, and walking there beside Henry towards the evening glass of beer, I found the one prayer that seemed to serve the winter mood: O God, You've done enough, You've robbed me of enough, I'm too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone forever.

Death will come in any case, and there is a long afterwards if the priests are right and nothing to fear if they are wrong.