Sex annihilates identity, and the space given to sex in contemporary novels is an avowal of the absence of character.

Labor is work that leaves no trace behind it when it is finished, or if it does, as in the case of the tilled field, this product of human activity requires still more labor, incessant, tireless labor, to maintain its identity as a 'work' of man.

An unrectified case of injustice has a terrible way of lingering, restlessly, in the social atmosphere like an unfinished question.

Venice is the worlds unconscious: a misers glittering hoard, guarded by a Beast whose eyes are made of white agate, and by a saint who is really a prince who has just slain a dragon.

The happy ending is our national belief.

Every age has a keyhole to which its eye is pasted.

Labor is work that leaves no trace behind it when it is finished.