My answer to your question'Does the writer have a social responsibility?' is NO.You owe me ten cents, sir.

It is strange that the tactile sense, which is so infinitely less precious to men than sight, becomes at critical moments our main, if not only, handle to reality.

Whenever I start thinking of my love for a person, I am in the habit of immediately drawing radii from my love - from my heart, from the tender nucleus of a personal matter- to monstrously remote points of the universe. Something impels me to measure the consciousness of my love against such unimaginable and incalculable things as the behaviour of nebulae (whose very remoteness seems a form of insanity), the dreadful pitfalls of eternity, the unknowledgeable beyond the unknown, the helplessness, the cold, the sickening involutions and interpenetrations of space and time.

Life is just one small piece of light between two eternal darknesses.

All my life I have been a poor go-to-sleeper. No matter how great my weariness, the wrench of parting with consciousness is unspeakably repulsive to me.

I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.

The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.