But my lord, Yvonne, surely you know by this time I can’t get drunk however much I drink. - Malcolm Lowry

How shall the murdered man convince his assassin he will not haunt him.

There was something in the wild strength of this landscape, once a battlefield, that seemed to be shouting at him, a presence born of that strength whose cry his whole being recognized as familiar, caught and threw back into the wind, some youthful passage of courage and pride — the passionate, yet so nearly always hypocritical, affirmation of one’s soul perhaps, he thought, of the desire to be, to do, good, what was right.

What is man but a little soul holding up a corpse?