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.

Do we mean love, when we say love?

If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.

Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.

I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.

Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.

I gave up before birth.