How much better is silence; the coffee-cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee-cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.
We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.
Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers.
Let a man get up and say, “Behold, this is the truth,” and instantly I perceive a sandy cat filching a piece of fish in the background. Look, you have forgotten the cat, I say.
But look—he flicks his hand to the back of his neck. For such gestures one falls hopelessly in love for a lifetime.