History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening.

My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out.

and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.

When I heard the word ''stream'' uttered with such a revolting primness, what I think of is urine and not the contemporary novel. And besides, it isn't new, it is far from the dernier cri. Shakespeare used it continually, much too much in my opinion, and there's Tristam Shandy, not to mention the "Agamemnon."

Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves.

I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality.