What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.

Oh, pity the poor glutton Whose troubles all begin In struggling on and on to turn What's out into what's in.

The only catalogue of this world's goods that really counts is that which we keep in the silence of the mind.

It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.

All day long the door of the sub-conscious remains just ajar; we slip through to the other side, and return again, as easily and secretly as a cat.

What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.

After all, what is every man? A horde of ghosts - like a Chinese nest of boxes - oaks that were acorns that were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in front - in our ancestors, back and back until.