I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.

There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.

Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.

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.

I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of — how shall I say, I don’t know.

To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.