The mind is its own enemy, that fights itself with the innumerable pliant and ineluctable arms of the octopus.
The family, that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor in our innermost hearts never quite wish to.
The monster of advertisement...is a sort of octopus with innumerable tentacles. It throws out to right and left, in front and behind, its clammy arms, and gathers in, through its thousand little suckers, all the gossip and slander and praise afloat.
When the narrator feels like an octopus, when he says his limbs are starting to multiply, he means he has inklings of orders of perception beyond his individual body.
Every science is a mutilated octopus. If its tentacles were not clipped to stumps, it would feel its way into disturbing contacts.
The only time I am not talking is when I am dancing. I look like an electrocuted octopus.
