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Hello, and welcome to my website, where you can read excerpts from my first two books, We Take Me Apart and Desire. Or view #littlebitsoffit from Fit Into Me, the third installment of my ongoing series.

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The Dead

"The sinews no longer hold the flesh and the bones together, and once the spirit has left the white bones, all the rest of the body is made subject to the fire's strong fury, but the soul flitters out like a dream and flies away."

"Arriv'd, he, tuning to his voice his strings, Thus to the king and queen of shadows sings." 

"Abandon hope all ye who enter here."

"This hooly monk, this Abbot, hym meene I, His tonge out-caughte, and took awey the greyn, And he yaf up the goost ful sofetly."

"It seems to me, Sancho, that you are very frightened."

"There might be more mediatory layers in nineteenth-century ghost stories than the single author/narrator figure mediating between Moll and the reader, but the work this layer does for Defoe is at least a part of the work done by such mediation in the ghost stories too." 

"I can never escape Mrs JEWKES: who often keeps me awake in the Night -- Till the Ghost of Lady DAVERS, drawing open the Curtains, scares the Scarer, of me, and of PAMELA." 

"Alas, poor Yorick!" 

"Abodes of horror have frequently been described, and castles, filled with spectres and chimeras, conjured up by the magic spell of genius to harrow the soul, and absorb the wondering mind. But, formed as such stuff as dreams are made of, what were they to the mansion of despair, in one corner of which Maria sat, endeavouring to recalling her scattered thoughts!" 

"What was I?"

"The inner state of his soul might be compared to a demolished building, which has been demolished so that from it a new one could be built; but the new one has not been started yet." 

"I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, 'Let me in -- let me in!'" 

"Are you a believer in ghosts, my friend?"

"The housekeeper has dropped her voice to little more than a whisper." 

"It was a wedding bouquet, the other bride's bouquet!" 

"These were the ancestors. There were no portraits of their descendants." 

"It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was." 

"The residents of Bly are very concerned with keeping everyone in place: servants remain servants, masters grow up to be masters, and the dead stay dead. But Quint and the former governess, Miss Jessel, don't cooperate." 

"But to him it seemed as if that pale and lovely Hermes out there was smiling at him, beckoning him; as if he, taking his hand from his side, was pointing at and floating into that promising immensity. And as he was used to do, Aschenbach followed him."

"And to see her look displeased destroyed all the sense of tranquillity she had brought me a moment before, when she bent her loving face down over my bed, and held it out to me like a Host, for an act of Communion in which my lips might drink deeply the sense of her real presence, and with it the power to sleep." 

"He watched as it slowly began to get light everywhere outside the window too. Then, without his willing it, his head sank down completely, and his last breath flowed weakly from his nostrils."

"It is the ghost, the king, a king and no king, and the player is Shakespeare who has studied Hamlet all the years of his life which were not vanity in order to play the part of the spectre. He speaks the words to Burbage, the young player who stands before him beyond the rack of cerecloth, calling him by a name: Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit, bidding him to list. To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince, young Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, who has died in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever."

"He -- for there could be no doubt of his sex . . ." 

"And the next morning they found him in his shirt tail laying asleep on the floor like a felled steer, and the top of the box bored clean full of holes . . ." 

"I do not know which of us has written this page."

"Unfortunately I am afraid, as always, of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, but being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I'll never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time. So there is nothing to be afraid of. And yet I am afraid, afraid of what my words will do to me, to my refuge yet again."

"And in my outrage I got out my knife and prepared to slit his throat, right there beneath the lamplight in the deserted street, holding him by the collar with one hand, and opening the knife with my teeth -- when it occurred to me that the man had not seen me, actually; that he, as far as he knew, was in the midst of a walking nightmare!" 

"I have a memory of having seen something like foamy clouds swirling above my head, and then being washed by the foam and sinking into the thick clouds. That was the last thing I saw.

"A short time later, when the carpenter was taking measurements for the coffin, through the window they saw a light rain of tiny yellow flowers falling. They fell on the town all through the night in a silent storm, and they covered the roofs and blocked the doors and smothered the animals who slept outdoors. So many flowers fell from the sky that in the morning the streets were carpeted with a compact cushion and they had to clear them away with shovels and rakes so that the funeral procession could pass by."

Jealousy, The Unnameable, and Lo-lee-ta

Streams-of-subconsciousness