One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.

I like spaghetti because you don't have to take your eyes off the book to pick about among it, it's all the same.

I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action

All the unhurried day / Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.

The chromatic scale is what you use to give the effect of drinking a quinine martini and having an enema simultaneously.

Clearly money has something to do with life.

Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.