If faces were different when lit from above or below -- what was a face? What was anything?

They walked along, two continents of experience and feeling unable to communicate.

There's a kinship among men who have sat by a dying fire and measured the worth of their life by it.

Experimental novels are sometimes terribly clever and very seldom read. But the story that appeals to the child sitting on your knee is the one that satisfies the curiosity we all have about what happened then, and then, and then. This is the final restriction put on the technique of telling a story. A basic thing called story is built into the human condition. It's what we are; it's something to which we react.

Roger stooped, picked up a stone, aimed and threw it at Henry-threw it to miss. The stone, that token of preposterous time, bounced five yards to Henry's right and fell in the water. Roger gathered a handful of stones and began to throw them. Yet there was a space round Henry, perhaps six yards in diameter, into which he dare not throw. Here, invisible yet strong, was the taboo of the old life. Round the squatting child was the protection of parents and school and policemen and the law. Roger was conditioned by a civilization that knew nothing of him and was in ruins.

This is our island. It's a good island. Until the grownups come to fetch us we'll have fun.

The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers....Their scent spilled out into the air and took possession of the island.