Gormenghast, That Is, The Main Massing Of

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.

When He At Least Reached The Door The Handle Had Cease To Vibrate. Lowering Himself Suddenly To His Knees He Placed His Head And The Vagaries Of His Left Eye (which Was For Ever Trying To Dash Up And Down The Vertical Surface Of The Door), He Was Able By Dint Of Concentration To Observe, Within Three Inches Of His Keyholed Eye, An Eye Which Was Not His, Being Not Only Of A Different Colour To His Own Iron Marble, But Being, Which Is More Convincing, On The Other Side Of The Door.

I Was Brooding, Boy. Than Which There Is No Richer Pastime. It Muffles One With Rotting Plumes. It Gives Forth Sullen Music. It Is The Smell Of Home.

Noon, Ripe As Thunder And Silent As Thought, Had Fled Unfingered.

We Are All Imprisoned By The Dictionary. We Choose Out Of That Vast, Paper-walled Prison Our Convicts, The Little Black Printed Words, When In Truth We Need Fresh Sounds To Utter, New Enfranchised Noises Which Would Produce A New Effect.