There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.

I am myself. That is not enough.

Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.

What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.

I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.

Living with him is like being told a perpetual story: his mind is the biggest, most imaginative I have ever met. I could live in its growing countries forever.

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.