I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.
When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
It is no use trying to sum people up.
We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.
How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?
All this pitting of sex against sex, of quality against quality; all this claiming of superiority and imputing of inferiority belong to the private-school stage of human existence where there are sides, and it is necessary for one side to beat another side.