Always alone, his soul oscillated, first on the side of death, then on the side of life, doggedly.

The real agony was that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to say, and WAS nothing himself.

Sometimes he ran down the streets as if he were mad: sometimes he was mad; things weren't there, things were there.

It made him pant.

Sometimes he stood before the bar of the public-house where he called for a drink.