We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the "ideas" with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience.

Once I am dead, there will be no lack of pious hands to throw me over the railing; my grave will be the fathomless air; my body will sink endlessly and decay and dissolve in the wind generated by the fall, which is infinite.

Someone who lives alone, I thought. You end up becoming what you see in the eyes of those you love.

It was mostly sweet," he whispered, "and you were the sweetest of all.

Written By Frank Herbert

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