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.

Sometimes I felt I would die by wishing it when I went to sleep but I always woke up again and found I was still there. Every morning finding I'm still me, that's hell.""Well, get out of hell then! The gate's open and I'm holding it!""I can't. I'm hell, myself.

Getting through time was rather the problem. The cry of 'Help me!' — but there was no one there.

She lived in private with her own horror.

These young people have got to suffer, we can't save them from it —

And suffering we know breeds images, it breeds the most beautiful images of all.

I am sunk in the wreck of myself . . . I live in myself like a mouse inside a ruin.

Mary held her heart, contracted into a point of agony.

Oh if only I could take my mother away and never know of these things again. But it was impossible, the machine would go on and on and nothing would stop it. And no one from now on for ever would know how much he suffered and what it was really like to be him.How can I bear it, he thought, how can I go on bearing it without becoming something savage and awful?