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So here we are, then, leaving entirely to its wanderings the question of whether what is at stake is to be or not to be.

I have often wondered since why he should have carried about these shells with him in his wandering, guilty, and hunted life.

He looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to see that she herself had been drifting. She had felt it all the time.

Years of dust, wind, the wind will, erratic, is our youth.

Uncle Willie was a rolling stone that gathered no moss. He worked in different jobs all over the country.

He moves quickly up the side of the roof and barely avoids a roaming search light.

But his life in exile must have been trying, always on the move, the model of the 'engaged' writer.

I'm sure Isabel wouldn't want him to be a rolling stone.

But Mr Ackroyd is especially good at conveying Poe's precarious state, ever on the brink of self-destruction.