“The wind blew the dust along the ground into his mouth as he sang.”

“He awoke, opened his eye. The room meant very little to him; he was too deeply immersed in the non-being from which he had just come. If he had not the energy to ascertain his position in time and space, he also lacked the desire. ... In utter comfort, utter relaxation he lay absolutely still for a while, and then sank back into on the the light momentary sleeps that occur after a long, profound one.”

“Whenever he was en route from one place to another, he was able to look at his life with a little more objectivity than usual. it was often on trpis that he thought most clearly, and made the decisions that he could not reach when he was stationary.”

“[A]nother important difference between tourist and traveler is that the former accepts his own civilization without question; not so the traveler, who compares it with the others, and rejects those elements he finds not to his liking.”

“How many times his (Port's) friends, envying him his life, had said to him: "Your life is so simple." "Your life seems always to go in a straight line." Whenever they had said the words he heard in them an implicit reproach: it is not difficult to build a straight road on a treeless plain. He felt that what they really meant to say was: "You have chosen the easiest terrain." But if they elected to place obstacles in their own way-which they clearly did, encumbering themselves with every sort of unnecessary allegiance-that was no reason why they should object to his having simplified his life. So it was with a certain annoyance that he would say: "Everyone makes the life he wants. Right?" as though there were nothing further to be said.”

“the writer:"a spy sent into life by the forces of death. His main objective is to get the information across the border, back into death. Then he can be given a mythic personality: 'he spent time among us, betrayed us, and took the material across the border.”

“Scene VI (1940)It is our fault we love only the skull of BeautyWithout knowing who she was, of what she died.We have the thief's guilt, but not his booty,The liar's spasm without ever having lied.The sick locust scrapes his injured song,His thorax only partially destroyed.Retching is prohibited. It's wrong.The murderer feels no hate he can avoid.Now flies bite worst where the skin is broken.Illness triumphs. Lesions. Soon tumors sprout.The bloated plants quiver, the seeds will be shaken.'Your head's bashed in, darling. Look out.”