Disillusion can become itself an illusion If we rest in it.

A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel reader is not prepared to give.

Hell is oneself, hell is alone, the other figures in it merely projections. There is nothing to escape from and nothing to escape to. One is always alone.

These fragments I have shored against my ruins

Cling, swing, Spring, sing, Swing up into the apple tree.

Distracted from distraction by distraction

For you know only a heap of broken images