I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.

Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.

How hideous is the semicolon.

Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.

I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.

We could have saved sixpence. We could have saved fivepence. But at what cost?