“Good evening, Lord Corwin,' said the lean, cadaverous figure who rested against a storage rack, smoking his pipe, grinning around it.
Good evening, Roger. How are things in the nether world?'
A rat, a bat, a spider. Nothing much else astir. Peaceful.'
You enjoy this duty?'
He nodded.
I am writing a philosophical romance shot through with elements of horror and morbidity. I work on those parts down here.”
“The enemy of the moment is not as important as our own inner weakness. If this is not mended we are already defeated, though no foreign conqueror stands within our walls.”
“Добре. Още един ден и ние продължаваме да сме живи. Може дори мъничко бяхме помъдрели. Достатъчно, за да осъзнаем, че все още съществуват много неща, които трябва да научим. Да не губим надежда. Това е то.”
“It was my turn to be silent while a small family of moments crossed my path, single file, from the left, sticking their tongues out at me.”
“Death is the only limit to the road you travel.”
“Heredity or environment? I wondered wryly. We were all of us, to some degree, mad after his fashion. To be honest, it had to be a form of madness, to have so much and to strive so bitterly for just a little more, for a bit of an edge over the others. He carried this tendency to its extreme, that is all. He was a caricature of this mania in all of us. In this sense, did it really matter which of us was the traitor?”
“Stubama i dolje. Ni zvuka odozdo. Znači kasno je. Dobro. Još jedan dan, a još smo živi. Možda čak i malo mudriji. Dovoljno mudri da bismo shvatili da mnoge stvari još ne znamo. Doduše, imamo nadu.”
“I wish that some time, long ago, something had not been said that was said, or something done that was not done. Something, had we known, which might have let him grow differently, something which would have seen him become another man than the bitter, bent thing I saw up there. It is best now if he is dead. But it is a waste of something that might have been.”
“The complexity of language, he thought to himself, lies not in its subject matter but in our knotted understanding.”
“I'd like to pay your palms the same favor that you pay these pages, searching them for grooves and images and the secret signs of hunger, as you may scan these words for hidden messages. The lines of your hand might be a guide to your gifts for pleasure, or a clue to where you'll take me, or a map of where I might take you.”
“You ruin me, woman,” he breathes, before taking my mouth in his.”
“Where does violence go, if not directly back into our blood and bones?”
“When you think about the women who aren't interested in my brother, it pretty much just leaves the lesbians”
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