Nobody Ever Dies Of An Indignity.

Fate Is Not An Eagle, It Creeps Like A Rat.

First Love, With Its Frantic Haughty Imagination, Swings Its Object Clear Of The Everyday, Over The Rut Of Living, Making Him All Looks, Silences, Gestures, Attitudes, A Burning Phrase With No Context.

Very Young People Are True But Not Resounding Instruments.

Almost Everybody Wore A Curious Limpidity Of Expression, Like Newborn Babies Or Souls Just After Death. Dazed But Curiously Dignified.... After A Criseof Hysterical Revulsion And Tiredness, I Passed Beyondand Became Entered By A Rather Sublime Feeling.

The Novel Does Not Simply Recount Experience, It Adds To Experience.