Yet Not With All Of

Cold Love’s The Loveliest Love Of All. So Clear, So Crisp, So Empty. In Short, So Civilized.

I Was Brooding, Boy. Than Which There Is No Richer Pastime. It Muffles One With Rotting Plumes. It Gives Forth Sullen Music. It Is The Smell Of Home.

He Had No Longer Any Need For Home, For He Carried His Gormenghast Within Him. All That He Sought Was Jostling Within Himself. He Had Grown Up. What A Boy Had Set Out To Seek A Man Had Found, Found By The Act Of Living.

For What Use Are Books To Anyone Whose Days Are Like A Rook's Nest With Every Twig A Duty.

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.