The Unlikely Escape of Uriah Heep

by H.G. Parry

Words aren’t the same to me on a screen. I can see them, but I can’t connect with them. They’re too hard and bright; I float on top of them, like a leaf on the surface of a pond. Words on paper are quiet, and porous; in the right mood, I sink down between the gaps in the letters and they close over my head.

There is something about a physical book compared to digital

where the impossible happen. The spaces between.”

“We’re all just words.

History is every bit as much of a story as fiction. There’s no reason a reader can’t construct their own Duke of Wellington just as clearly as they might construct their own personal Uriah Heep. If you’re wanting some sort of theory about what we’re made of, old thing, that’s the best I can do. We’re half words, and half thought.

you know when you read a book, sometimes, and you suddenly realize that you’ve been missing something your whole life, and you weren’t even aware, and all at once you’ve found it and are just a little bit more whole?

Nothing stays hidden. Secrets are always found out, and the world is unforgiving.

“There are no innocent people,” Dorian said. “I know the darkness in their hearts. I’m a creature of the Gothic imagination; more than that, I’m a creature of the Internet. I don’t hold it against them. I’m no better than them. But believe me, Millie, there is no happy ending to real life.”