Your illusions are a part of you like your bones and flesh and memory.
Thank God you can flee, can escape from that massy five-foot-thick maggot-cheesy solidarity which overlays the earth, in which men and women in couples are ranked like ninepins.
All the old accumulated rubbish-years which we call memory.
When you have plenty of good strong hating you don’t need hope because the hating will be enough to nourish you.
To the man grown the long crowded mile of his boyhood becomes less than the throw of a stone.
There is that might-have-been which is the single rock we cling to above the maelstrom of unbearable reality.
There is no such thing as memory: the brain recalls just what the muscles grope for: no more, no less: and its resultant sum is usually incorrect and false and worthy only of the name of dream.
There are some things that just have to be whether they are or not, have to be a damn sight more than some other things that are and it don’t matter a damn whether they are or not.
There are some things for which three words are three too many, and three thousand words that many words too less.
That unpaced corridor which I called childhood, which was not living but rather some projection of the lightless womb itself.
People both before and since have tried to evoke God or devil to justify them in what their glands insisted upon.
Or maybe women are even less complex than that and to them any wedding is better than no wedding and a big wedding with a villain preferable to a small one with a saint.
