Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.

There was a time in my demented youth When somehow I suspected that the truth About survival after death was known To every human being: I alone Knew nothing, and a great conspiracy Of books and people hid the truth from me.

And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.

Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form.

One is always at home in one's past.

I shall continue to exist. I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist.

He was afraid of touching his own wrist. He never attempted to sleep on his left side, even in those dismal hours of the night when the insomniac longs for a third side after trying the two he has.