Nothing is more real than nothing.
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
That penny farthing hell you call your mind
Enough of acting the infant who has been told so often how he was found under a cabbage that in the end he remembers the exact spot in the garden and the kind of life he led there before joining the family circle.
I can't go on. I'll go on.