Yes, there is no denying it, any longer, it is not you who are dead, but all the others. So you get up and go to your mother, who thinks she is alive. That's my impression. But now I shall have to get myself out of this ditch. How joyfully I would vanish here, sinking deeper and deeper under the rains.

Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.

My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.

You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.

How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I'd been saving up for her all my life.