In all this there was a strangeness that attracted and enchanted me.

This angel appeared as a hart and was past them in a single bound, its tail streaming fire like a comet.

And all those cups are nothing but dried-up inkwells waiting for the demons to rise to the surface from the darkness of the ink, the infernal powers, the bogeymen, the hymns to the night, the flowers of evil, the hearts of darkness, or else for the melancholy angel to glide by that distills the humors of the soul and decants states of grace and epiphanies.

...I look to die and enter the foul lair of the occult occultress

And he sets the sea of my life steady, flooding it with the deep rich color of his mind and his love and constant amaze at his perfect being: as if I had conjured, at last, a god from the slack tides, coming up with his spear shining, and the cockleshells and rare fish trailing in his wake, and he trailing the world: for my earth goddess, he the sun, the sea, the black complement power: yang to yin.

God will break your heart.

...a raven-headed angel with a bright sword, astride a black wolf...

My holy place is [him]. And it is an abomination.

I am the angel who dwells in the point where lines fork. Whoever retraces the way of divided things encounters me, whoever descends to the bottom of contradictions runs into me, whoever mingles again what was separated feels my membraned wing brush his cheek!

...he never revealed how absolutely this man had taken possession of his soul.

For the cards conceal more things than they tell...