The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition

Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.

And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.

Our imagination flies -- we are its shadow on the earth.

By God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.

Neither in environment nor in heredity can I find the exact instrument that fashioned me, the a.non.y.muse roller that passed upon my life a certain intricate watermark whose unique design becomes visible when the lamp of art is made to shine through life's foolscap.

Because you took advantage of my disadvantage.