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

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.

There are times when the air that floats between mortals becomes, in its stillness and silence, as cruel as the edge of a scythe.

Years on end, and swords on end - where will it end, if our ears unbend - what shall I spend on a wrinkled friend in a pair of tights like a bunch of lights?

Something to remember, that: cats for missiles.

I want a lot to eat, I'm going to think today.

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