They are always asking a writer why he does not write like somebody else, or a painter why he does not paint like somebody else, quite oblivious of the fact that if either of them did anything of the kind he would cease to be an artist.
memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away
The basis of optimism is sheer terror.
Grass is hard and lumpy and damp, and full of dreadful black insects.
But she is happiest alone. She is happiest alone.
It is better to repent a sin than regret the loss of a pleasure.