If you think of yourself as a sleeping city for example… what? You can sit quiet and hear the processes going on, going about their business; volition, desire, will, cognition, passion, conation.
He felt that his mind had become a battle-ground for the forces of good and evil and that his task was to strain every nerve to recognize them, but it was not easy.
Even time is money comes into the picture; and then, if you think that money is excrement for the Freudian, you understand that time must be also!
But then is not life itself a fairy-tale which we lose the power of apprehending as we grow? No matter.
But I love to feel events overlapping each other, crawling over one another like wet crabs in a basket
A novel should be an act of divination by entrails, not a careful record of a game of pat-ball on some vicarage lawn!
A drunken whore walks in a dark street at night, shedding snatches of song like petals. Was it in this that Anthony heard the heart-numbing strains of the great music which persuaded him to surrender...
Books everywhere piled up in heaps, the rare companions of a solitude not self-imposed but sought.
He sits all day on the terrace of the Brokers' Club watching women pass, with the restless eye of someone endlessly shuffling through an old soiled pack of cards.