She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.
Thinking is my fighting.
Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
Only longing can fill with more of itself.
How can I express the darkness?
I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams