With his nightcaps and the tatters of his dressing-gown he patches up the gaps in the structure of the universe.

Man has done his best to ruin the world he lives in.

"We all have flaws," he said, "and mine is being wicked."

It's a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder.

His insides are beginning to feel sickly. The pain of the world is a crater all these syrups and pills a thousandfold would fail to fill.

Maybe all the strings inside him broke.

Life is indeed terribly complicated — to a man who has lost his principles.

There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet.

There are parts of his life and personality that are extremely messy, and that's the truth

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.

It is perhaps, plausible that a man in this situation, impressed with the unconcern of the universe, should see the innumerable flaws of his life and have them taste wickedly in his mind and wish for another chance.

Man is physically as well as metaphysically a thing of shreds and patches, borrowed unequally from good and bad ancestors, and a misfit from the start.

[He] Attacks the past, but fears that, having destroyed it,
He will have nothing on which to lay his head.

His imprecision and laziness maddened my compulsive instincts — his patchiness, the way even his speech was riddled with drop-outs and glitches like a worn cassette, the way his leaden senses refused the world