I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next day had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

I, love, I am the pure acetylene virgin attended by roses.

I think I may well be a Jew.

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.