I’m sorry, I’m not myself. Or rather I am myself, my new self.
One’s mind is such an old rubbish heap. All sorts of little bits of machinery start up.
Perhaps one could not live with such knowledge. One might die for it, or of it.
It had all been quite uncannily painless. I was left with a sense of not having suffered enough. Only sometimes in dreams did I experience certain horrors, glimpses of punishment which would perhaps yet find its hour.
Our relationship in fact was never idle. It was obvious that we constantly thought about each other.
She was dressed to go to bed only it was ridiculously early to go to bed. She desired to be unconscious.
But by now anything was better than hope.
We take a self-forgetful pleasure in the sheer alien pointless independent existence of animals, birds, stones and trees.
I thought it might make him despair of life, but he has despaired anyway.
We ignore what we are doing until it is too late to alter it. We never allow ourselves quite to focus upon moments of decision; and these are often in fact hard to find even if we are searching for them.
She thought, perhaps I am simply mad. It will grow worse. That will be my life.
Outsiders who see rules and not the love that runs through them are often too ready to label other people as ‘prisoners’.
In a way it does not matter where I am. In another way where I am is fated.
It is unfortunately for us both also the truth that I love you and only you utterly and permanently and to distraction.
To describe one’s character is difficult and not necessarily illuminating. The story which follows will reveal, whether I will or no, what sort of person I am.
There is so much grit in the bottom of the container, almost all our natural preoccupations are low ones, and in most cases the rag-bag of consciousness is only unified by the experience of great art or of intense love. Neither of these was relevant to my messy and absent-minded goings-on.
But there can be intuitions even here of a more sublime agony.
Some inner organ would give way, her heart would literally break, if she did not see him soon.
Death contradicts ownership and self.
He felt as if he were being used, as if Willy were using him as a hard neutral surface against which to crush, like insects, the thoughts which haunted him.