Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

I hurl my heart to halt his pace.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.

I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

Apparently, the most difficult feat for a Cambridge male is to accept a woman not merely as feeling, not merely as thinking, but as managing a complex, vital interweaving of both.