The Moon Slid Inexorably Into Its Zenith,

Gormenghast, That Is, The Main Massing Of The Original Stone, Taken By Itself Would Have Displayed A Certain Ponderous Architectural Quality Were It Possible To Have Ignored The Circumfusion Of Those Mean Dwellings That Swarmed Like An Epidemic Around It S Outer Walls.

In The Presence Of Real Tragedy You Feel Neither Pain Nor Joy Nor Hatred, Only A Sense Of Enormous Space And Time Suspended, The Great Doors Open To Black Eternity, The Rising Across The Terrible Field Of That Last Enormous, Unanswerable Question.

I Am The Wilderness Lost In Man.

[peake's Books] Are Actual Additions To Life; They Give, Like Certain Rare Dreams, Sensations We Never Had Before, And Enlarge Our Conception Of The Range Of Possible Experience.

Yet Not With All Of Me Am I In Love. Too Much Of My Own Quietness Is With Me.