For Death is the meaning of night;The eternal shadowInto which all lives must fall, All hopes expire.

But greater than all these delights would be the possession of this wondrous library for my own use and pleasure. What more could my bibliophile’s soul ask for? Here were marvels without end, treasures beyond...

I had retained little of what is generally called religion, except for a visceral conviction that our lives are controlled by some universal mechanism that is greater than ourselves. Perhaps that was what others called...

After killing the red-haired man, I took myself off to Quinn’s for an oyster supper.

The summer passed quietly. I busied myself as best I could, reading a good deal.

I long for sleep, and for soft English rain. But they do not come.