It's one of the great fallacies, it seems to me, that time gives much of anything but years and sadness to man.

Orange and speckled and fluted nudibranchs slide gracefully over the rocks, their skirts waving like the dresses of Spanish dancers.

Death was a friend, and sleep was Death's brother.

And her joy was nearly like sorrow.

All of them had a restlessness in common.

To a monster the norm must seem monstrous, since everyone is normal to himself.

I would like to sit still for a while but I'm restless you know and sitting still is only an ideal like celibacy and complete cleanliness.