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.

And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.

. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.

Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath.

There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.

I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames.