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.

Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.

When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.

For this is the truth about our soul, he thought, who fish-like inhabits deep seas and plies among obscurities threading her way between the boles of giant weeds, over sun-flickered spaces and on and on into gloom, cold, deep, inscrutable; suddenly she shoots to the surface and sports on the wind-wrinkled waves; that is, has a positive need to brush, scrape, kindle herself, gossiping.

The future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be, I think.

Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall.

Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?