I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.

Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.

Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.

I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.

Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.

Do they [the publishers of Murphy] not understand that if the book is slightly obscure it is because it is a compression and thatto compress it further can only make it more obscure?