Publishers Are Thieves, They Are

The Act Of Living Had Been Enjoyable; At Some Point When I Was Not Paying Attention, It Had Turned Into A Different Sort Of Experience, To Whose Grimness I Had Grown So Accustomed That I Now Took It For Granted.

Illness Reduces Man To His Basic State: A Cloaca In Which The Chemical Processes Continue. The Meaningless Hegemony Of The Involuntary.

Since The World Began Has Any Man Ever Been Able To Know What Would Happen Tomorrow? The World Of Men Is Today. I'm Asking You To Open Your Heart Today. Tomorrow Belongs To Allah.

Whereas The Tourist Generally Hurries Back Home At The End Of A Few Weeks Or Months, The Traveler Belonging No More To One Place Than To The Next, Moves Slowly Over Periods Of Years, From One Part Of The Earth To Another. Indeed, He Would Have Found It Difficult To Tell, Among The Many Places He Had Lived, Precisely Where It Was He Had Felt Most At Home.

Because Neither She Nor Port Had Ever Lived A Life Of Any Kind Of Regularity, They Had Both Made The Fatal Error Of Coming Hazily To Regard Time As Non-existent. One Year Was Like Another Year. Eventually Everything Would Happen.