For What Use Are Books To Anyone

For Death Is Life. It Is Only Living That Is Lifeless.

Lingering Is So Very Lonely When One Lingers All Alone.

The Earth Swirls Down Through The Ominous Moons Of Preconsidered Generations.

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.

[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.