The white May blossom swooned slowly into the open mouth of the grave.
The secret of survival is a defective imagination.
If they give me the bloody prize, why can't they say nice things about me?
What is money, after all? Almost nothing, when one has a sufficiency of it.
I had never liked, even feared a little, this wild reach of marsh and mud flats where everything seemed turned away from the land, looking off desperately toward the horizon as if in mute search for a sign of rescue.
All a work of art can do is present the surface. I can't know the insides of people. I know very little about the inside of myself.