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There are times when the air that floats between mortals becomes, in its stillness and silence, as cruel as the edge of a scythe.

Mervyn Peake

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Mervyn Peake
Age: 57 †
Born: 1911
Born: July 9
Died: 1968
Died: November 17
Illustrator
Novelist
Painter
Poet
Writer
Mervyn Laurence Peake
Mervyn L. Peake
Mervyn Lawrence Peake
Becomes
Floats
Times
Stillness
Cruel
Mortals
Edge
Edges
Air
Scythes
Silence
Scythe

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It was not certain what significance the ceremony held... but the formality was no less sacred for it being unintelligible
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I am the wilderness lost in man.
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And now, my poor old woman, why are you crying so bitterly? It is autumn. The leaves are falling from the trees like burning tears- the wind howls. Why must you mimic them?
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Something to remember, that: cats for missiles.
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For what use are books to anyone whose days are like a rook's nest with every twig a duty.
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Each day I live in a glass room unless I break it with the thrusting of my senses and pass through the splintered walls to the great landscape.
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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.
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As I see it, life is an effort to grip before they slip through one's fingers and slide into oblivion, the startling, the ghastly or the blindingly exquisite fish of the imagination before they whip away on the endless current and are lost for ever in oblivion's black ocean.
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And there shall be a flame-green daybreak soon. And love itself will cry for insurrection! For tomorrow is also a day - and Titus has entered his stronghold.
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His was not the hatred that arises suddenly like a storm and as suddenly abates. It was, once the initial shock of anger and pain was over, a calculated thing that grew in a bloodless way.
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Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered.
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I am too rich already, for my eyes Mint gold, while my heart cries.
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What is Time... That you speak of it so subserviently? Are we to be the slaves of the sun, that second-hand, overrated knob of gilt, or of his sister, that fatuous circle of silver paper? A curse upon their ridiculous dictatorship!
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Cold love’s the loveliest love of all. So clear, so crisp, so empty. In short, so civilized.
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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.
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Why break the heart that never beat from love?
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Years on end, and swords on end - where will it end, if our ears unbend - what shall I spend on a wrinkled friend in a pair of tights like a bunch of lights?
Mervyn Peake
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Mount and begone. The world awaits you.
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He saw in happiness the seeds of independence, and in independence the seeds of revolt.
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Oh how I hate people!
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