Alive. Alive in the way that death is alive.

Duty largely consists of pretending that the trivial is critical.

I knew words were like chains, they held me back . . . the act of description taints the description.

I have a strange illusion quite often. I think I've become deaf. I have to make a little noise to prove I'm not. I clear my throat to show myself that everything is normal. It's like the little Japanese girl they found in the ruins of Hiroshima. Everything dead; and she was singing to her doll.

I am infinitely strange to myself.

It's like the day you realize dolls are dolls. I pick up my old self and I see it's silly. A toy I've played with too often. It's a little sad, like an old golliwog at the bottom of the cupboard. Innocent and used-up and proud and silly.

We talked for hours. He talked and I listened. It was like wind and sunlight. It blew all the cobwebs away.