And the first till last alshemist wrote over every square inch of the only foolscap available, his own body, till by its corrosive sublimation one continuous present tense integument slowly unfolded all marryvoising moodmoulded cyclewheeling history.

I am proud to be an emotionalist.

He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: A day of dappled seaborne clouds.

Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid preasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor.

I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.

Love, yes. Word known to all men.

I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.