I'd love to have the whole place swimming in roses

Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.

Life is too short to read a bad book.

I'll tickle his catastrophe.

Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she?

All things are inconstant except the faith in the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light.

She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed: and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male.