Happy the mother who bears, happier still the biographer who records the life of such a one!
I am suspended between life and death in an unfamiliar way.
The words issuing from her lips like crumbs of dry biscuit.
The green garden, moonlit pool, lemons, lovers, and fish are all dissolved in the opal sky, across which, as the horns are joined by trumpets and supported by clarions there rise white arches firmly planted on marble pillars...
My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.
The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it.