As I see it, life is an effort to grip before they slip through one's fingers and slide into oblivion, the startling, the ghastly or the blindingly exquisite fish of the imagination before they whip away on the endless current and are lost for ever in oblivion's black ocean.

Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered.

Lingering is so very lonely when one lingers all alone.

The moon slid inexorably into its zenith, the shadows shrivelling to the feet of all that cast them, and as Rantel approached the hollow at the hem of the Twisted Woods he was treading in a pool of his own midnight.

For what use are books to anyone whose days are like a rook's nest with every twig a duty.

He saw in happiness the seeds of independence, and in independence the seeds of revolt.

I am clever enough to know that I am clever.