Quote

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!

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
Hand
Sister
Fatuous
Upon
Curse
Knob
Speak
Circles
Knobs
Hands
Ridiculous
Overrated
Time
Slave
Dictatorship
Sun
Slaves
Paper
Circle
Second
Silver
Gilt

More quotes by Mervyn Peake

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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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Why break the heart that never beat from love?
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[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.
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Something to remember, that: cats for missiles.
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I am too rich already, for my eyes Mint gold, while my heart cries.
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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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Mount and begone. The world awaits you.
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Oh how I hate people!
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Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered.
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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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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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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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It was not certain what significance the ceremony held... but the formality was no less sacred for it being unintelligible
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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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Through her, in microcosm, the wide earth sobbed. The starglobe sank in her the colours faded. The death-dew rose and the wild birds in her breast climbed to her throat and gathered songless, hovering, all tumult, wing to wing, so ardent for those climes where all things end.
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I am the wilderness lost in man.
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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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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?
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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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