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The sort of eyes that could sour milk at twenty paces.
She watched them through the slats of the gate, her eyes glinting like jewels in the murky night, brighter than the night because living, purer than the night because wanting.
Stories, half-told, hung in the air.
The smudged words on the paper were like matches set to the tinder of his panic.
“This is the state of the beast,” it said, “to eat and be eaten.”
snorting, up his savior’s body to kiss out his life.
We should never have given up Dionysus for Apollo.”
his tongue had a fit of honesty.
“If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die—
“There are lives lived for love,” said Lichfield to his new company, “and lives lived for art.
Stale incense, old sweat and lies …”
“It is the body of the state,” said Vaslav, so softly his voice was barely above a whisper, “it is the shape of our lives.”
The stars were coming out, with their familiar caution. Night was approaching, mercifully bandaging up the wounds of the day, blinding eyes that had seen too much.
Hated his naiveté, his passion to believe any half-witted story if it had a whiff of romance about it.
Better to go with it wherever it was going, serve it in its purpose, whatever that might be; better to die with it than live without it.
