It comes to him: growth is betrayal. There is no other route. There is no arriving somewhere without leaving somewhere.

Growth is betrayal.

Old age treats freelance writers pretty gently.

A house, having been willfully purchased and furnished, tells us more than a body, and its description is a foremost resource of the art of fiction.

He had a sensation of anxiety and shame, a sensitivity acute beyond usefulness, as if the nervous system, flayed of its old hide of social usage, must record every touch of pain.

For male and female alike, the bodies of the other sex are messages signaling what we must do, they are glowing signifiers of our own necessities.