Arm of the Sphinx (The Books of Babel, #2)

by Josiah Bancroft

Women with rouged cheeks and charcoaled eyes loitered by the open flaps of cells that appeared no deeper than a wardrobe. They wore great volumes of dirty crinoline, torn netting, and frayed lace. These gowns, which were meant to evoke some better society, some higher virtue, only made them seem more pitiable, like dead flowers laid upon a fresh grave.

History is a love letter to tyrants written in the blood of the overrun, the forgotten, the expunged!”

In the natural world there are two varieties of awe: the carnal awe associated with reproduction, and the hypnotic awe experienced by the prey of certain predators, such as the stoat. After years of observation, I am still not sure which variety of awe the Tower inspires.

She watched a great school of starlings break around the Tower’s edge and turn into sparkling coal dust amid the shadow.

Iren looked the captain and first mate up and down, taking in Edith’s split lip, the gory stains on her tattered scarf and the captain’s shirt, the sling that pinned her mighty arm to her breast, the gash of blood on his forehead, the glowing dust that frosted them from hat to boot, and the strong smell of smoke wafting from their clothes. “How was the zoo?” she asked.

Yes, it was tragic and chancy, but so was sitting on your hands and wishing for a long life.

Movement, indeed all progress, even the passage of time, is an illusion. Life is the repetition of stillness.

The status quo is just a pleasing synonym for decay.

Do not allow small people to make large impressions.