Please excuse this outpouring which perhaps makes no sense but is the utter darkness of my spirit pouring from me like black blood.

I feel I'm at the end of something — everything is going to be different — and terrible.""That doesn't sound like you, you ride every wave.""There is one that will drown me.

One's mind is such an old rubbish heap. All sorts of little bits of machinery start up.

You can't go through the looking-glass without getting cut. You know that now, don't you?

And all the time the line of force which bound her to her husband stretched and vibrated so that her heart in secret haemorrhage, gushed blood.

Priscilla is in hell. Well, we all are. Life is torture, consciousness is torture. All our little devices are just morphia to stop us from screaming . . . We're each of us screaming away in our own private padded cell.

I've somehow run myself into hell. There must be many entrances.

Anyway, as you say, what the hell. I know, I've been to hell, I've seen it, I've been shown round. I'll kill myself. You'll see, you'll be sorry.

But now, when things had happened which were too appalling to think about, when his romantic love was a corpse and his cleverness a ghost, he knew where it was he wanted to lay his head.