“…we can not love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes along its own trajectory and immediately disappears.”

“... we cannot love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes off along its own trajectory and immediately disappears.”

“The 'what' of life is immediate, but the 'why' trails along at its own pace.”

“She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they’d loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?”

“No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.”

“Think't the best voyage that e'er you made like an irregular crab which, though’t goes backward, thinks that it goes right, because it goes its own way.”