I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow, the million moving shapes and cul-de-sacs of shadow. There was shadow in bureau drawers and closets and suitcases, and shadow under houses and trees and stones, and shadow at the back of people's eyes and smiles, and shadow, miles and miles and miles of it, on the night side of the earth.

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

I had removed my patent leather shoes after a while, for they foundered badly in the sand. It pleased me to think they would be perched there on the silver log, pointing out to sea, like a sort of soul-compass, after I was dead.

I had been alone more than I could have been had I gone by myself.

And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.