I Am The Wilderness Lost In Man.

I Am Clever Enough To Know That I Am Clever.

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

Something To Remember, That: Cats For Missiles.

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.

[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.