It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.

Often on a wet day I begin counting up; what I've read; what I haven't read.

We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.

My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?

Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.

But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.

Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.