Only two things are real to me: my love and my death. In between them, I merely exist as a scatter of senses.

There is a period in one's life - perhaps not longer than six months - when one lives in two worlds at once ... It is the time when one has freshly learned to read. The Word, till then a denominating aspect of the Thing, has suddenly become detached from it and is perceived as a glittering entity, transparent and unseizable as a jellyfish, yet able to create an independent world that is both more recondite and more instantaneously convincing than the world one knew before.

Of all damnable offenses preaching prudence to the young is the most damnable.

The baby romped on my lap like a short stout salmon.

The fatal flaw of gravity; when you are down, everything falls down on you.

Love is the only real patriation, and without one's dear one sits in a dreary and boring exile.

Slowly, with a look of intense concentration, he got up and advanced on me ... put out a front paw, and stroked my cheek as I used to stoke his chops. A human caress from a cat. I felt very meagre and ill-educated that I could not purr.