He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter.

Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eons of the gods.

I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short time of space.

What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began?

Wipe your glosses with what you know.

For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.

Love, yes. Word known to all men.