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Mon Dieu, la vie est par trop moche.

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Only times and places, only names and ghosts.

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What we feel and think and are is to a great extent determined by the state of our ductless glands and viscera.

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My soul is a pale, tenuous membrane..."That was pleasing: a thin, tenuous membrane. It had the right anatomical quality. Tight blown, quivering in the...more

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Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the over-compensations of misery.

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The world and the friends that lived in it are shadows: you alone remain real in this drowsing room.

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Thought must be divided against itself before it can come to any knowledge of itself.

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Time moved for you not in quotidian beats, but in the slow rhythm the ages keep –

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Her cheeks were flushed. She caught hold of the Savage's arm and pressed it, limp, against her side. He looked down at her for a moment, pale, pained,...more

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A physical shortcoming could produce a kind of mental excess. The process, it seemed, was reversible. Mental excess could produce, for its own purpose...more

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For I am you and you are I.

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There was a thing called Heaven; but all the same they used to drink enormous quantities of alcohol."..."There was a thing called the soul and a thing...more

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One of the principal functions of a friend is to suffer (in a milder and symbolic form) the punishments that we should like, but are unable, to inflic...more

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He wanted to imprison his nameless misery in words.

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There were the years— years of childhood and innocence— when I had believed that carminative meant— well, carminative. And now, before me lies the res...more