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424 pages, Hardcover
First published October 1, 2010
This is the true face of love.
”His entire chest cavity had been opened up. Ice crystals glittered like jewels festooning his ribs, lining the walls of his ripped-open stomach; his lungs looked like two enormous multifaceted diamonds; his frozen viscera shone as brightly as wet marble. It was terrible. And it was beautiful.”
"In the outer room their shadows meet and become one. The starving man eats; he drinks his fill from the pure waters overflowing. Her sweet breath. Her skin golden in the firelight. For a moment, at least, he tastes what his enigmatic mistress, the one for whom he rejected this love, cannot provide. In the abundance of her emerald eyes, Pellinore Warthrop found himself in another human being at last."
"The myth of the Wendigo is especially gruesome. Legend say that the Wendigo is cursed with unsatisfied hunger and the more it eats the more hungry it becomes. Due to its unquenchable hunger its constantly in a crazed state constantly looking for new food such as lost campers. Some Cryptozoologist say that its able to pass between time and space to find a new source of prey."
Let us go then, you and I, like Alice down the rabbit hole, to a time when there still were dark places in the world, and there were men who dared to delve into them.
'He’s a shape-changer. Sometimes he’s just like a wolf or bear, and he’s always hungry and he don’t eat anything but people, and the more he eats, the hungrier he gets and the thinner he gets, so he has to keep hunting; he can’t stop. He travels through the forest jumping from treetop to treetop, or some say he spreads out his long arms and glides on the wind. He always comes after you at night, and once he finds you, you’re a goner; there’s nothing you can do.'
No beast plays pranks or acts out motives of jealousy. If so, then we all are beasts.
.... a solitary man, a dweller in silences, a genius enslaved to his own despotic thought, meticulous in his work, careless in his appearance, given to bouts of debilitating melancholia and driven by demons as formidable as the physical monstrosities he pursued.
The cold stars spun to the ancient rhythm, the august march of an everlasting symphony. They are old, the stars, and their memory is long.
Around us the forest had been blasted white, and the snow continued to fall, flakes the size of quarters, a heartbreakingly beautiful landscape. Suddenly my eyes welled with tears- not tears of sorrow or despair but tears of hatred, of rage, of a loathing that rose from the very depths of the soul. The doctor had been wrong. His true love was not indifferent. She rejoiced in the brutality of her nature. She savored our slow, torturous death. There was no mercy, no justice, not even a purpose. She was killing us simply because she could.
In a lightless cellar flooded with human waste, ...
In the name of all that's holy, tell my why God felt the need to make a hell. It seems so redundant.
“Ice crystals glittered like jewels festooning his ribs, lining the walls of his ripped-open stomach; his lungs looked like two enormous multi-faceted diamonds; his frozen viscera shone as brightly as wet marble. It was terrible. And it was beautiful.”