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He had the vision of an owl in the besotted darkness of his mind. Having paused outside the door, he was already twisting the cap off his silver flask of bourbon. Jackson had concluded that Wilkes didn’t crave whiskey for its own sake; he drank it austerely, in measured swallows. Neither was the lawyer courting oblivion, like many other heavy drinkers. There seemed to be a massive fear behind his grip on the bottle. In the dark which he created for himself he found courage, and relief from demons.
All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By
John Farris
one could not distinguish the arabesque from the arbutus, ardor from art, the sore from the rose.
Ada, or Ardor
Vladimir Nabokov
The light in the room looked seedy, dismal. It weighed on her like fog, insubstantial but chilling. It congealed time.
The Parasite
Ramsey Campbell
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