Something came out from my heart into my throat and then into my eyes.

After all this, what happened? What happened was that, as soon as I had the slightest chance of a place to hide in, I crept into it and hid. Well, sometimes it's a fine day isn't it? Sometimes the skies are blue. Sometimes the air is light, easy to breathe. And there is always tomorrow.

Love was a terrible thing. You poisoned it and stabbed at it and knocked it down into the mud - well down - and it got up and staggered on, bleeding and muddy and awful. Like - like Rasputin.

When you are a child you are yourself and you know and see everything prophetically. And then suddenly something happens and you stop being yourself; you become what others force you to be. You lose your wisdom and your soul.

...morbidly, attracted him to strangeness, to recklessnesss, even unhappiness.

The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.

Cold - cold as truth, cold as life. No, nothing can be as cold as life.