How hideous is the semicolon.

All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.

All I say cancels out, I’ll have said nothing.

But what matter whether I was born or not, have lived or not, am dead or merely dying. I shall go on doing as I have always done, not knowing what it is I do, nor who I am, nor where I am, nor if I am.

To restore silence is the role of objects.

The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.

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