Yet there are moments when the walls of the mind grow thin; when nothing is unabsorbed, and I could fancy that we might blow so vast a bubble that the sun might set and rise in it and we might take the blue of midday and the black of midnight and be cast off and escape from here and now.

How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?

There was a serenity about him always that had the look of innocence, when, technically, the word was no longer applicable.

I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.

One has to secrete a jelly in which to slip quotations down people's throats - and one always secretes too much jelly.

Distorted realities have always been my cup of tea.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.