What did it avail to pray when he knew his soul lusted after its own destruction?

I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.

I could call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

Love me. Love my umbrella.

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.