The sight of one's own heart is degrading; people are not meant to look inward - that's why they've been given bodies, to hide their souls.

I am like a small creature swallowed whole by a monster, she thought, and the monster feels my tiny little movements inside.

[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 . . .

She walked quickly around her one-room apartment. After more than four years in this one home she knew all its possibilities, how it could put on a sham appearance of warmth and welcome when she needed a place to hide in, how it stood over her in the night when she woke suddenly, how it could relax itself into a disagreeable unmade, badly-put-together state, mornings like this, anxious to drive her out and go back to sleep.

For plain and fancy worrying, give me a new mother every time.

All I could think of when I got a look at the place from the outside was what fun it would be to stand out there and watch it burn down.

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