And What Would You Do, ... If

It Was The Tenderness Mingled With Melancholy Which We Bring To A Time That Belongs Irrevocably To The Past, When A Pale, Delicate Shadow Rises From It Bearing The Lilies Of The Dead, And In It We Find A Forgotten Likeness To Ourselves. And That Faint, Wistful Shadow, That Pale Scent, Seemed To Vanish Away Into A Wide, Full, Warm Stream - The Life That Now Lay Open Before Him.

I Also Believe That Few People Remain Completely Untouched By The Thought That Instead Of The Life They Lead There Might Also Be Another, Where All Actions Proceed From A Very Personal State Of Excitement. Where Actions Have Meanings, Not Just Causes. And Where A Person, To Use A Trivial Word, Is Happy, And Not Just Nervously Tormenting Himself.

Only In The Most Unusual Cases Is It Useful To Determine Whether A Book Is Good Or Bad; For It Is Just As Rare For It To Be One Or The Other. It Is Usually Both.

Life Forms A Surface That Acts As If It Could Not Be Otherwise, But Under Its Skin Things Are Pounding And Pulsing.

Time, Which Runs Through The World Like An Endless Tinsel Thread, Seemed To Pass Through The Centre Of This Room And Through The Centre Of These People And Suddenly To Pause And Petrify, Stiff, Still And Glittering... And The Objects In The Room Drew A Little Closer Together.