Slightest accidents open up new worlds.
Books and doors are the same thing. You open them, and you go through into another world.
I dreamed I was a single moment in a single day. A note struck and vanished. A sounding. A reckoning. Gone.
What are you that makes me feel thus? Who are you for whom time has no meaning?
That walls should fall is the consequence of blowing your own trumpet.
As far as I was concerned men were something you had around the place, not particularly interesting, but quite harmless. I had never shown the slightest feeling for them, and apart from my never wearing a skirt, saw nothing else in common between us.