His suspicion that he was not going in the right direction tortmented him more and more. At last he had the conviction that he would never go anywhere but in the wrong direction, to the very end of the handful of days that was left to him, unhappy moonstruck pilgrim, whose April was to be cut off short.

The writer is always to some extent in exile, wherever he is, because he is somehow outside, separated from others; there is always a distance.

To tell the truth, this was one of the few cases in which she had not told him just what she was thinking. Usually, she let him know whatever thoughts happened to come to her, and indeed he never took it amiss if she let slip a word that might pain him, because when all was said and done that was the price one paid for sincerity.

The days were heavy and sticky. All identical, one the same as the other. Soon they would even get rid of their one remaining distinction, the shell of their names: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday.

It was only a phrase that went from mouth to mouth and was never quite swallowed.

Shiny musical instruments wailed, their mouths open like lilies.

If an animal has to be sacrificed when a new bridge is built, what will it take to build a whole new world?