I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.

There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.

Some people, and I am one of them, hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm.

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

I am sentimental,’ she said. ‘I could dissect a koala but not its baby. I like the words damozel, eglantine, elegant. I love when you kiss my elongated white hand.

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain/By the false azure in the windowpane.