Just started this. Alan Moore's approach to Lovecraft work. Very promising so far.
I adore Alan Moore, he's an incredible writer, not read that one yet tho! I really want to re-read From Hell but it's a big commitment..
My to-read pile includes the new Philip Pullman, the latest Judge Dredd omnibus and Snow Angels (Jeff Lemire and Jock).
You MUST read this one, you are going to love it.
I’m with you on From Hell. I read it long time ago during a trip through Cuba (imagine the contrast) and I’ve always wanted to re-read it, but there is so much to read yet… maybe someday.
Some lines from my third read-through of Gormenghast trilogy. This time I'm reading it as an illustrated e-book from my phone. I'll read these books over and over again so it's nice to have them with me everywhere and to have a quick access dictionary always at hand that works by just clicking the word.
The deep unhurried purring (of the cats) was like the voice of an ocean in the throat of a shell.
She was reading aloud in a deep voice that rose above the steady drone of a hundred cats. They filled the room. Whiter than the tallow that hung from the candelabra or lay broken on the table of birdseed. Whiter than the pillows on the bed. They sat everywhere. The counterpane was hidden with them. The table, the cupboards, the couch, all was luxuriant with harvest, white as death, but the richest crop was all about her feet where a cluster of white faces stared up into her own. Every luminous, slit-pupilled eye was upon her. The only movement lay in the vibration in their throats. The voice of the Countess moved on like a laden ship upon a purring tide.
it was then that she froze within herself and locking herself away, became ill with the failure of her life, the frustration of her womanhood, and tossing and turning in her improvised bedroom twelve feet above the flood, conceived, for the first time, the idea of suicide
Her thought had taken her into a realm of possibility so vast, awe-inspiring, final and noiseless that her knees felt weak and she glanced over her shoulder although she knew herself to be alone in her room with the door locked against the world. When she reached the window she stared out across the water, but nothing that she saw affected her thought or made any kind of visual impression on her.
It was all true. It wasn’t any story
She was someone who was young and beautiful and brave as a lioness
The water received her and drowned her at it's ease
Everything was moving round and round – the Tower, the pines, the corpse, the moon, and even the inhuman cry of pain that leapt from the Tower’s throat into the night – the cry, not of an owl, but of a man about to die. As it echoed and echoed, the lank and exhausted servant fell fainting in his tracks, while the sky about the Tower became white with the lit bodies of circling owls, and the entrance to the Tower filled with a great weight of feathers, beaks and talons as the devouring of the two incongruous remains proceeded.
Is Time’s cold scroll recoiling on itself until the dead years speak, or is it in the throb of now that the spectres wake and wander through the walls?
One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain So hit me with music, hit me with music
