Henry's joy left him abruptly and he began anxiously to think about himself.

I've been so unhappy for years, so unhappy . . . I don't understand how a human being can be so unhappy all the time and still be alive.

Little pictures out of hell.

Oh my life is so awful, it's just so awful to be me, you don't know what it's like waking every morning and finding the whole horror of being yourself still there.

The presence of so many things which ought to have delighted her and been her friends brought home to Moy how little delight she could now feel and how alienated she now was from all the beings to which she had once felt so close.

And she did seem then to go to sleep instantly: the quick flight into oblivion of the chronically unhappy person.

Oh Christ, if I could only have some happiness.

And so my life has become tiny and mean and incomplete and I must begin it again without comfort and without magic.

It was her birthday. She thought, I am always unhappy on this day.