I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.

I am not likely to die of bashfulness but neither am I prepared to be crucified to attest the perfection of my art. I dislike to hear of any stray heroics on the prowl for me.

All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.

My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire.

Thought is the thought of thought.

Do you know what a pearl is and what an opal is? My soul when you came sauntering to me first through those sweet summer evenings was beautiful but with the pale passionless beauty of a pearl. Your love has passed through me and now I feel my mind something like an opal, that is, full of strange uncertain hues and colours, of warm lights and quick shadows and of broken music.

What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own.