His Emotion Evident In The Glitter Of

The Special Quality Of Hell Is To See Everything Clearly Down To The Last Detail.

His Conviction Of Having No Purpose In Life Other Than To Act As A Distillation Of Poison Was Part Of The Ego Of An Eighteen-year-old. He Had Resolved That His Beautiful White Hands Would Never Be Soiled Or Calloused. He Wanted To Be Like A Pennant, Dependent On Each Gusting Wind. The Only Thing That Seemed Valid To Him Was To Live For The Emotions--gratuitous And Unstable, Dying Only To Quicken Again, Dwindling And Flaring Without Direction Or Purpose.

I Still Have No Way To Survive But To Keep Writing One Line, One More Line, One More Line.

According To Eshin's Essentials Of Salvation, The Ten Pleasures Are But A Drop In The Ocean When Compared To The Joys Of The Pure Land.

Suddenly The Full Long Wail Of A Ship's Horn Surged Through The Open Window And Flooded The Dim Room—a Cry Of Boundless, Dark, Demanding Grief; Pitch-black And Glabrous As A Whale's Back And Burdened With All The Passions Of The Tides, The Memory Of Voyages Beyond Counting, The Joys, The Humiliations: The Sea Was Screaming.