But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

A very elementary exercise in psychology, not to be dignified by the name of psycho-analysis, showed me, on looking at my notebook, that the sketch of the angry professor had been made in anger. Anger had snatched my pencil while I dreamt. But what was anger doing there? Interest, confusion, amusement, boredom--all these emotions I could trace and name as they succeeded each other throughout the morning. Had anger, the black snake, been lurking among them? Yes, said the sketch, anger had.

Tragedies come in the hungry hours.

The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.

To be nothing - is that not, after all, the most satisfactory fact in the whole world?

With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.

I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.