“A land not mine, stillforever memorable,the waters of its oceanchill and fresh.Sand on the bottom whiter than chalk,and the air drunk, like wine,late sun lays barethe rosy limbs of the pinetrees.Sunset in the ethereal waves:I cannot tell if the dayis ending, or the world, or ifthe secret of secrets is inside me again.”

“This land, although not my native land,Will be remembered forever.And the sea's lightly iced,Unsalty water.The sand on the bottom is whiter than chalk,The air is heady, like wine,And the rosy body of the pinesIs naked in the sunset hour.And the sunset itself on such waves of etherThat I just can't comprehendWhether it is the end of the day, the end of the world,Or the mystery of mysteries in me again.”

“It's only a little secret, but having a secret makes me feel better. Like a human being again.”

“Secrets press inside a person. They press the way water presses at a dam. The secrets and the water, they both want to get out.”

“The taste of chalk. The sun lays its copper thumbs on my eyelids. The radio plays the monologue of a dog. What is the formula for tomorrow?”

“The thing is, I used to like that: feeling special because I knew something no one else did. It's a kind of power, isn't it, knowing a secret? But lately I don't like it so much, knowing this. It's not really mine to know, is it?”