Happiness is a garden walled with glass: there's no way in or out.

Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress.

These things sneak up on him for no reason, these flashes of irrational happiness. It's probably a vitamin deficiency.

I'm not senile," I snapped. "If I burn the house down it will be on purpose.

I want everything back, the way it was. But there is no point to it, this wanting.

In theory I can do almost anything; certainly I have been told how. In practice I do as little as possible. I pretend to myself that I would be quite happy in a hermit's cave, living on gruel, if someone else would make the gruel. Gruel, like so many other things, is beyond me.

All I can hope for is a reconstruction: the way love feels is always only approximate.