He felt all at once like an ineffectual moth, fluttering at the windowpane of reality, dimly seeing it from outside.

Just because something bears the aspect of the inevitable one should not, therefore, go along willingly with it.

That is the artist's job: take mineral rock from dark silent earth, transform it into shining light-reflecting form from sky.

He felt all at once like an ineffectual moth, fluttering at the windowpane of reality, dimly seeing it from outside.

Every junkie, he thought, is a recording.

On some other world, possibly it is different. Better. There are clear good and evil alternatives. Not these obscure admixtures, these blends, with no proper tool by which to untangle the components.

We are served by organic ghosts, he thought, who, speaking and writing, pass through this our new environment. Watching, wise, physical ghosts from the full-life world, elements of which have become for us invading but agreeable splinters of a substance that pulsates like a former heart.