Perelandra

by C.S. Lewis

Again and again he stood still, clinging to some branch to steady himself, and breathed it all in, as if breathing had become a kind of ritual.And at the same time the forest landscape furnished what would have been a dozen landscapes on Earth — now level wood with trees as vertical as towers,now a deep bottom where it was surprising not to find a stream, now a wood growing on a hillside, and now again, a hilltop whence one looked down through slanted boles at the distant sea. Save for the inorganic sound of waves there was utter silence about him.The sense of his solitude became intense without becoming at all painful — only adding, as it were, a last touch of wildness to the unearthly pleasures that surrounded him. If he had any fear now, it was a faint apprehension that his reason might be in danger.There was something in Perelandra that might overload a human brain.