[L]et my reader who is puzzled by my awkward explanations close his eyes for no more than two minutes, and see if he does not find himself suddenly not a compact human being at all, but only a consciousness on a sea of sound and touch . . .

I shall weave a suit of leaves. At once. With acorns for buttons.

You will be wondering about that sugar bowl, I imagine, is it still in use? You are wondering, has it been cleaned? You may very well ask, was it thoroughly washed?

I would have to find something else to bury here and I wished it could be Charles.

We moved together very slowly toward the house, trying to understand its ugliness and ruin and shame.

Can't you make them stop?' I asked her that day, wondering if there was anything in this woman I could speak to, if she had ever run joyfully over grass, or had watched flowers, or known delight or love.

Today my winged horse is coming and I am carrying you off to the moon and on the moon we will eat rose petals.