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He Who Finds A Wife: A Man's Guide To Finding The Woman & Love He Desires

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Stephan Labossiere

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“You would hardly think, at first, that horrid monsters lie up there waiting to be discovered by any moderately penetrating mind--monsters to which those of the oceans bear no sort of comparison." What monsters may they be?" Impersonal monsters, namely, Immensities. Until a person has thought out the stars and their inter-spaces, he has hardly learnt that there are things much more terrible than monsters of shape, namely, monsters of magnitude without known shape. Such monsters are the voids and waste places of the sky... In these our sight plunges quite beyond any twinkler we have yet visited. Those deep wells for the human mind to let itself down into, leave alone the human body! and think of the side caverns and secondary abysses to right and left as you pass on!... There is a size at which dignity begins," he exclaimed; "further on there is a size at which grandeur begins; further on there is a size at which solemnity begins; further on, a size at which awfulness begins; further on, a size at which ghastliness begins. That size faintly approaches the size of the stellar universe. So am I not right in saying that those minds who exert their imaginative powers to bury themselves in the depths of that universe merely strain their faculties to gain a new horror?”

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Book:Two on a Tower
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“Annabelle stared straight ahead at the canvas, neither seeing nor caring about the fluctuations of light and color that conveyed impressions of approaching nightfall…the dusk of the Roman Empire. Hunt seemed similarly indifferent to the show, his head inclined toward hers, his gaze locked on her face. Though his breathing remained soft and disciplined, it seemed to her that its rhythm had changed ever so slightly. Annabelle moistened her dry lips. “You…you mustn’t stare at me like that.” Soft as the murmur was, he caught it. “With you here, nothing else is worth looking at.”

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Book:Secrets of a Summer Night
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“…the literary world is filled with kooks and fanatical people obsessed with writers but they don’t write themselves or are afraid to. I can always tell who writes for a living by what they want to discuss with me. Anyone who makes a living or earns money writing has shared their works etc; likes to discuss life itself ie: anything except writing. And if it’s discussed it’s usually in terms of endearment, writers who influenced us to attempt to make money writing. Anyone who fantasizes about writing or being a writer and maybe just writes casually and privately, oddly wants to talk about authors. To critique them categorize them and talk about their interpretations of their works and other various judgments on why they are good or not. If you ask them why they haven’t published they tend to have a list of cowardly reasons why they can’t bring themselves to completing or showing anything they have written or published themselves …”

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Author:Tim Storrs
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“In the darkness with no ember, cold coals bear no flaming tinder. All the shadows, man resemble. In the darkness, wise men tremble. Prodigious foes made thee for pointless sake of prosaic power. Visited upon thyself no vestige of vision by late nights hour. In the stillness of normal eve, in longing for the night's reprieve. In air and earth arise a faint and subtle shift, tis follies gift. With tremulous breath, whisper faintly from thy spirits tower. 'Woe to me!', thy soul says. Cometh nigh, The Rez.”

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Book:Reign of Madness
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