He was in a fever that never broke.

The joy of creation that is supposed to belong to the gods was his.

All the life about him--the odors of stale vegetables and soapsuds, the slatternly form of his sister, and the jeering face of Mr.Higginbotham--was a dream.

The real world was in his mind, and the stories he wrote were so many pieces of reality out of his mind.
The days were too short.

There was so much he wanted to study.