To Live At All Is Miracle Enough.

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.

The Sun Sank With A Sob And Darkness Waded In From All Horizons So That The Sky Contracted And There Was No More Light Left In The World, When, At This Very Moment Of Annihilation, The Moon, As Though She Had Been Waiting For Her Cue, Sailed Up The Night.

I Am Clever Enough To Know That I Am Clever.

Lingering Is So Very Lonely When One Lingers All Alone.

Mervyn Peake Is A Finer Poet Than Edgar Allan Poe, And He Is Therefore Able To Maintain His World Of Fantasy Brilliantly Through Three Novels. It (gormenghast Trilogy) Is A Very, Very Great Work ... A Classic Of Our Age.