Sublime

Edgar Allan Poe’s short story The Man of the Crowd.

Ah, God! what trances of torments does that man endure who is consumed with one unachieved revengeful desire. He sleeps with clenched hands; and wakes with his own bloody nails in his palms.

A churchwarden pipe, the kind with a long, thin stem, used indoors by the leisure class. He looked toward the wall and its empty shelves…

Some highlights have been hidden or truncated due to export limits.

"Somehow," he said, "there seems to be something rather horrid about the things you know." "There is," replied Horne Fisher. "I am not at all pleased with my small stock of knowledge and reflection.

For as the swift monster drags you deeper and deeper into the frantic shoal, you bid adieu to circumspect life and only exist in a delirious throb.

But, Harrow … all the ones I touched, all the ones I loved … they stayed incorrupti

“Hey, maybe the rest of us didn’t eradicate the Arelius family before learning that their founder was the interdimensional god of death. You know what they say about hindsight, don’t you?”

"From these thoughts I was recalled by a ray that was shot into the room.