Banality Is Sometimes Striking.

It Has Been My Face. It's Got Older Still, Or Course, But Less, Comparatively, Than It Would Otherwise Have Done. It's Scored With Deep, Dry Wrinkles, The Skin Is Cracked. But My Face Hasn't Collapsed, As Some With Fine Feature Have Done. It's Kept The Same Contours, But Its Substance Has Been Laid Waste. I Have A Face Laid Waste.

I Acquired That Drinker's Face Before I Drank. Drink Only Confirmed It. The Space For It Existed In Me.

When You Wept It Was Just Over Yourself And Not Because Of The Marvelous Impossibility Of Reaching Her Through The Difference That Separates You.

I Seldom Read On Beaches Or In Gardens. You Can't Read By Two Lights At Once, The Light Of Day And The Light Of The Book. You Should Read By Electric Light, The Room In Shadow, And Only The Page Lit Up.

The Outrage Was On The Scale Of God. My Younger Brother Was Immortal And They Hadn't Noticed. Immortality Had Been Concealed In My Brother's Body While He Was Alive, And We Hadn't Noticed That It Dwelt There. Now My Brother's Body Was Dead, And Immortality With It. ... And The Error, The Outrage, Filled The Whole Universe.