Why do those people guess so much and shave so little, and are so disdainful of hearing aids?

For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.

Dear Jesus, do something.

He broke my heart. You merely broke my life.

We live not only in a world of thoughts, but also in a world of things. Words without experience are meaningless.

A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present. The mirror brims with brightness; a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.

but that mimosa grove - the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since." "this then is my story. i have reread it. it has bits of marrow sticking to it, and blood, and beautiful bright-green flies. at this or that twist of it i feel my slippery self eluding me, gliding into deeper and darker waters than i care to probe.