She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.

If she says goodbye perhaps adieu. Adieu - like those old time songs she sang. Always adieu (and all songs say it). If she too says it, or weeps, I'll take her in my arms, my lunatic. She's mad but mine, mine. What will I care for gods or devils or for Fate itself. If she smiles or weeps or both. For me.

Quite like old times,' the room says.

But they never last, the golden days. And it can be sad, the sun in the afternoon, can't it? Yes, it can be sad, the afternoon sun, sad and frightening.

I like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.

before I could read, almost a baby, I imagined that God, this strange thing or person I heard about, was a book.

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