The King in Yellow (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural)

by Robert W. Chambers

at last I scraped my palette, stuck my brushes in a bowl of black soap, and strolled into the smoking-room. I really believe that, excepting Geneviève’s apartments, no room in the house was so free from the perfume of tobacco as this one.

There are so many things which are impossible to explain! Why should certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of autumn foliage? Why should the Mass of Sainte Cécile bend my thoughts wandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin silver? What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o’clock that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still Breton forest where sunlight filtered through spring foliage and Sylvia bent, half curiously, half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring: ‘To think that this also is a little ward of God!’

There was no real hearse. There was a soft-shell crab dream.’

What a precious triple donkey I had made of myself!

The Clown turned his powdered face to the mirror. ‘If to be fair is to be beautiful,’ he said, ‘who can compare with me in my white mask?’ ‘Who can compare with him in his white mask?’ I asked of Death beside me. ‘Who can compare with me?’ said Death, ‘for I am paler still.’ ‘You are very beautiful,’ sighed the Clown, turning his powdered face from the mirror.

The sleet blew against the window-panes, covering them with stars and diamonds, then, melting from the warmer air within, ran down and froze again in fern-like traceries.

‘I’ve a bone to pick with you!’ he said. ‘Where is it? I’m hungry,’ replied Fallowby with affected eagerness,

The policeman pointed at the dog. He was speechless with indignation. ‘Well, Captain,’ smiled the young fellow. ‘Well, Monsieur Student,’ growled the policeman. ‘What do you come and complain to me for?’ ‘If you don’t chain him I’ll take him,’ shouted the policeman. ‘What’s that to me, mon capitaine?’ ‘Wha-t! Isn’t that bull-dog yours?’ ‘If it was, don’t you suppose I’d chain him?’

‘And you don’t mind chaff?’ ‘No,’ replied Selby, who hated it.

he knew even less about a work of art than he did about the art of work.

with the exception of a hen-turkey, a boy of nineteen is the most openly curious biped alive.