"The Hours are not all-knowing. Perhaps in truth we should not call them gods..."



"And so, sustained by this ambition, he went higher and higher yet, gray stone and gray cliff and gray rain falling, year after year, until he came at last to the place the swallows danced in the air above the bottomless void..."
"When they saw him, they stopped dancing to perch beside him on the stone, and when he saw them there, silver and black, beautiful as a night lit with stars, he was possessed once again by a great longing, and he told them of his desire for wings. ââPerhaps you may have wings, but you must give up your shell,â they cried..."
"And even as they told him he might have wings, he seemed to hear in their voices some of the carelessness he had heard in the voice of the owl and the bat and the bullfrog, who had told him where to go without telling him the dangers of the way. He heard them rightly, for the winged gods have a divine indifference toward those who seek flight. They will not entice and they will not promise and they will not make the way easy, for those who wish to soar must do so out of their heartâs desire and their mindâs consent and not for any other reason..."
"And the turtle struggled with himself, wanting wings but not wanting wings, for if he had wings, they told him, he would no longer be interested in going back to the pond to tell the creatures there of his journeyâthat comfortable telling, the anticipation of which had been, perhaps, more important to him than the wings themselves. So, he struggled, wanting and not wanting âŠ"
"Detective-Illuminate of the Suppression Bureau. A stoic, but weary, fellow. His dearest wish is to move to Chingford and grow roses. But the buggers won't let him retire."

"Write a truth in a book that no-one reads. Then drop dead. No-one knows what you wrote. Unless the truth is numen."

"Marksman, detective, renegade. He has always been a quiet man, but since he left the Suppression Bureau, he has grown even quieter, and terribly still - except for his fingers and for his eyes, always in restless motion."

"I crouch beneath like the scavenger I am, but the bloody gods favour me - I feast on furry shadows..."





âAfter the red leaf and the gold have gone,
Brought down by the wind, then by hammering rainâŠ
âŠI speak to you now with the landâs voice,
It is the cold, wild land that says to you
A knowledge glimmers in the sleep of things:
The old hills hunch before the north wind blows.â
â Howard Nemerov, âA Spell Before Winterâ (1962)

"In Brancrug Village, they tell of Thirza Blake's boast that she crossed an ocean in the Bounds by clinging to a broom of lignum vitae after a shipwreck. The pedant Strathcoyne points out that lignum vitae sinks in water. 'An ocean of mercury,' Thirza replies, and then, to provide a suitable punchline, clouts him on the head with her broom."

"The smithy fire still glows, but through the window I see a gaunt, eyeless shape working the bellows. There is no sign of Denzil, and I know better than to interrupt this visitor..."
"Afterwards I don't remember what work I performed, except in scents and sensations - leaf-mould, a rhythmic musical clicking like melodious castanets, soft blue flame like antique gaslight. And cold; I remember that where we went, it was cold."

"A thick and freezing murk, like a clinging black mist, roils at floor level. Not theoplasma exactly - the ragged remnants of some chilly Wood-thing? Or a good old-fashioned ghost, decayed to half-elemental energies? Some local will probably know."

"Cracktrack was a gift from the light above the world. When Glory touched the first life-motes with this language, they entered the waking world. They were Illuminated."


"This book is blotched with keeperskin, a luminous fungus that grows in the Wood we see in sleep, and enters the world when a dreamer inhales its spores."
"Sometimes when I turn this book to the right angle, I see an eye peering at me from its pages or covers. They close and fade when I leave them in the dark... but light will always bring them out eventually."



âWestengryre is what the early monks of St Brandanâs called it; that old green-sickness, the raptness of desolation, the terror of the wastes, and it is upon me now. The Wood. The Wood. The WoodâŠ!â




