How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.

What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?

I am quite alone. I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory.

These are the moments which are not calculable, and cannot be assessed in words; they live on in the solution of memory, like wonderful creatures, unique of their own kind, dredged up from the floors of some unexplored ocean.

How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.

It’s only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness.

An idea is like a rare bird which cannot be seen. What one sees is the trembling of the branch it has just left.