He felt as though his heart were a bomb, a complicated bomb that would result in a simple explosion, wrecking the world without rocking it.
He thought of how calm he was. His calm was so perfect that he could not destroy it even by being conscious of it.
Her sureness was based on the power to limit experience arbitrarily.
Let him ride a horse. He's a cowboy ain't he?
Like a dead man, only friction could make him warm or violence make him mobile.
Only those who still have hope can benefit from tears. When they finish, they feel better. But to those without hope, whose anguish is basic and permanent, no good comes from crying. Nothing changes for them. They usually know this, but still can’t help crying.