The Insect World

In spite of the thunder, and this sound meteorological decision, neither of them moved. There is magic in the moment that precedes a storm. Something unnameable stirs within one, the heart flutters, just as the leaves do; mystery enters to upset nice calculations, and all the painstaking achievements of man seem suddenly dwarfed in the passage of a greater Presence that has callously evolved them, and will one day just as callously swallow them up. We do not analyse these things, but we dimly sense them when the thunder reverberates through the hills, or a cool breeze suddenly makes the still roses shiver, or a black cat flashes out on to the lawn and chases its tail. — The House of Disappearance (1927), by J. Jefferson Farjeon

There is a peculiar isolation about a sea trip that clings even to the short, swift ferries across the North Atlantic. The land, with its familiar sights, sounds, activities, slips away. These things can still be talked of but no longer experienced; within twenty-four hours they become scarcely more real than one’s childhood, as new faces, new voices, totally different activities replace those left behind. There is an interim, a definite hiatus. For a time the traveller is suspended, as if on a foreign planet; never again, perhaps, will he see his fellow passengers, and the bars of convention (such as are left to us) are dropped by common consent. All are companions, for a period, on a holiday from life. Thus it happens, since most of us are gamblers at heart, that even those who scorn to wager at home, find themselves prepared to try their luck at sea. It has frequently been noticed that courage rather than scruple usually determines whether they do so or not. -- Obelists at Sea (1933), by C. Daly King

My eyes opened and I was wide-awake. I looked at the green glow of my watch and saw that it was three-thirty in the morning. When I click awake like that I can’t get back to sleep for a long time. I put my arms behind my head and looked into the darkness above me. The only sound was the frantic ticking of my watch and the wind blowing outside. Then there was something else. Outside. Outside in the wind and the blue-black night. I turned my head to the window. It was right there, its face and paws pressed up and squashed against the glass. Its body glowed like an unlit white candle. -- The Land of Laughs (1980), by Jonathan Carroll

The division of one day from the next must be one of the most profound peculiarities of life on this planet. It is, on the whole, a merciful arrangement. We are not condemned to sustained flights of being, but are constantly refreshed by little holidays from ourselves. We are intermittent creatures, always falling to little ends and rising to little new beginnings. Our soon-tired consciousness is meted out in chapters, and that the world will look quite different tomorrow is, both for our comfort and our discomfort, usually true. -- The Black Prince (1973), by Iris Murdoch

It is curious but significant that “gnostic” and “agnostic” are both dirty words in the Christian tradition: wisdom is not identified either with knowledge or with the denial of knowledge. [Northrop Frye]

Developed to re-empower the victim, the Zero Approach gun worked on a principle of etheric consent and only fired when the target was asking for it. Since its introduction, the homicide rate had risen by four hundred per cent. -- Slaughtermatic (1998), by Steve Aylett

As I used to tell my American friends at the time, Canadian activists have an outlet that your students don’t have, namely the American Embassy. If all else fails they can go down and demonstrate there. [Northrop Frye]

A hot rain blew in from the sea. It hit Ocean Avenue in sticky washes of reflected neon that took the colored light from the hotels and stores and ran it into the gutters with the trash. In Palisades Park a fat tramp stood staring down at something by his feet. The way he held his head made him look like a hanged man. He swayed slightly and I imagined a rope stretching from his neck to the sky. I pulled over, wondering if he’d found what I was looking for. -- High Life (2002), by Matthew Stokoe

Many is the good man I’ve known who has ruined himself by expecting too much justice. Now, I ask you, what sane man in this world really expects to get what he properly deserves? The Crewel Needle (1953), by Gerald Kersh

The drive back to Santa Monica was blank. My eyes felt charred and the cigarettes had eaten into my throat. I bought a cold coke from a machine outside a motel and chugged it till my eyes watered. Coke and damp night air, and the slowed pulse of the city around me. For that moment, for that snap-shot, micron-thin slice of time, I was free of the past, free even of the present - just the sweet caustic singe in my mouth and the loose quietness of being up and alone when most other people were asleep. -- High Life (2002), by Matthew Stoke