To Live At All Is Miracle Enough.

[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.

Lingering Is So Very Lonely When One Lingers All Alone.

For What Use Are Books To Anyone Whose Days Are Like A Rook's Nest With Every Twig A Duty.

There Are Times When The Air That Floats Between Mortals Becomes, In Its Stillness And Silence, As Cruel As The Edge Of A Scythe.

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.