No finite point has meaning without an infinite reference point.

One could only damage oneself through the harm one did to others. One could never get directly at oneself.

You see, the contemporary writer must write through his intimations of unease, while trying to elucidate them.

A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness...and suddenly the “I” pales, pales, and fades out.

When she is alone in the rooms I hear her humming to keep herself from thinking.

If I relegate impossible Salvation to the prop room, what remains? A whole man, composed of all men and as good as all of them and no better than any.

The more one is absorbed in fighting evil, the less one is tempted to place the good in question.