[L]et my reader who is puzzled by my awkward explanations close his eyes for no more than two minutes, and see if he does not find himself suddenly not a compact human being at all, but only a consciousness on a sea of sound and touch . . .

None of these things bothered us excessively; we have always been a family that carries bewilderment like a banner, and odd new confusions do not actually seem to be any more bewildering than the ones we invent for ourselves; moreover, in each of these cases it was easier to believe that nothing had happened, or that it was of no importance anyway.

It is only with the eyes open that a corporeal form returns, and assembles itself firmly around the hard core of sight.

Doctor my eyes, they can not see the sky.Is this the prize for having learned now not to cry?

Doctor my eyes, they can not see the sky.
Is this the prize for having learned now not to cry?

When Jim Donell thought of something to say he said it as often and in as many ways as possible, perhaps because he had very few ideas and had to wring each one dry.