“He could not feel agony. He could not feel sadness. His consciousness felt smoky, wisplike, incapable of anything but calm”

“He thought of how calm he was. His calm was so perfect that he could not destroy it even by being conscious of it. ”

“He had never felt anything like that before - yet somehow he knew that from now on he would always feel like that, always, and something caught at his throat as he realized what a strange sad adventure life might get to be, strange and sad and still much more beautiful and amazing than he could ever have imagined because it was so really, strangely sad.”

“But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the teashop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him- he could not feel. He could reason; he could read, Dante for example, quite easily…he could add up his bill; his brain was perfect; it must be the fault of the world then- that he could not feel.”

“And I could feel what he felt on the night when he realize that if he didn't leave, it would never be his life. It would be theirs.”

“He can kill anything for need but he could not even hurt a feeling for pleasure.”