I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.

Something’s died in me,” she goes. “It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.

And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

What good are insights? They only make things worse.

When a reader finishes a wonderful story and lays it aside, he should have to pause for a minute and collect himself.

All of us, all of us, all of us trying to save our immortal souls, some ways seemingly more round about and mysterious than others. We are having a good time here. But hope all will be revealed soon.

I think a little menace is fine to have in a story. For one thing, it's good for the circulation.