“I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to theCatacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of Helusionwhich border upon the foul Charonian canal." And then did we, theseven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling, andshuddering, and aghast, for the tones in the voice of the shadow werenot the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and,varying in their cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly uponour ears in the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousanddeparted friends.”

“I did not know that I was deep in the throes of fighting my shadow; my shadow being reflected in all those things around me, distracting me from the true problem, and blinding me to myself.”

“Change – real change – starts at the core of your being; it starts when you encounter the One who created you and you can no longer stand any essence of yourself that varies from His holiness.”

“Many couples, many people, are not living with real human beings, but with their ghosts. Who has not followed for years the spell of a particular tone of voice, from voice to voice, as the fetishist follows a beautiful foot, scarcely seeing the woman herself? A voice, a mouth, an eye, all stemming from the original fountain of our first desire, directing it, enslaving us, until we choose to unravel the fatal web and free ourselves.”

“But should a sensation from the distant past-like those musical instruments that record and preserve the sound and style of the various artists who played them-enable our memory to make us hear that name with the particular tone it then had for our ears, even if the name seems not to have changed, we can still feel the distance between the various dreams which its unchanging syllables evoked for us in turn. For a second, rehearing the warbling from some distant springtime, we can extract from it, as from the little tubes of color used in painting, the precise tint-forgotten, mysterious, and fresh-of the days we thought we remembered when, like bad painters, we were in fact spreading our whole past on a single canvas and painting it with the conventional monochrome of voluntary memory.”

“I thought that the world was a vast system of signs, a conversation between giant beings. My actions, the cricket's saw, the star's blink, were nothing but pauses and syllables, scattered phrases from that dialogue. What word could it be, of which I was only a syllable? Who speaks the word? To whom is it spoken?”