Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.

But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.

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

When the object is perceived as particular and unique and not merely the member of a family, when it appears independent of any general notion and detached from the sanity of a cause, isolated and inexplicable in the light of ignorance, then and only then may it be a source of enchantment.

Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher's regular, what normal woman wants affection?

Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.

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.