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

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

Something to remember, that: cats for missiles.

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.

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

His was not the hatred that arises suddenly like a storm and as suddenly abates. It was, once the initial shock of anger and pain was over, a calculated thing that grew in a bloodless way.

Each day I live in a glass room unless I break it with the thrusting of my senses and pass through the splintered walls to the great landscape.