So art becomes not communication but mystification.

One can be too ingenious in trying to search out the truth. Sometimes one must simply respect its veiled face. Of course this is a love story.

I will not attempt to describe how I got through the next few days. There are desolations of the spirit which can only be hinted at. I sat there huge-eyed in the wreck of myself.

Perhaps his demons were quite other.

The room, the wall, trembled with precision, as if the inanimate world were about to utter a word.