Yet Not With All Of Me Am

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.

There Is A Kind Of Laughter That Sickens The Soul. Laughter When It Is Out Of Control: When It Screams And Stamps Its Feet, And Sets The Bells Jangling In The Next Town. Laughter In All Its Ignorance And Cruelty. Laughter With The Seed Of Satan In It. It Tramples Upon Shrines; The Belly-roarer. It Roars, It Yells, It Is Delirious: And Yet It Is As Cold As Ice. It Has No Humor. It Is Naked Noise And Naked Malice.

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.

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.

Gormenghast, That Is, The Main Massing Of The Original Stone, Taken By Itself Would Have Displayed A Certain Ponderous Architectural Quality Were It Possible To Have Ignored The Circumfusion Of Those Mean Dwellings That Swarmed Like An Epidemic Around It S Outer Walls.