verbava все записи автора Neil Gaiman – Sandman. Volume 4: Season of Mist

Delirium is the youngest of the endless.
She smells of sweat, sour wines, late nights, old leather.
Her realm is close, and can be visited; however, human minds were not made to comprehend her domain, and those few who have made the journey have been incapable of reporting back more than tiniest pieces.
The poet Coleridge claimed to have known her intimately, but the man was an inveterate liar, and in this, as in so much, we must doubt his word.

***

Oh just shut up and let me finish. You can shout at me afterwards.

***

Sometimes we can choose the path we follow. Sometimes our choices are made for us.
And sometimes we have no choice at all.

***

Perhaps this is the ultimate freedom, eh, Dreamlord? The freedom to leave.

***

– Is there anything we can do?
– Of course, my darling! We can wait.

***

Even when it's empty, thought Charles Rowland, you're never alone in a school.
It belongs to all those dead people. All the other kids. The ones who sat at your desk, or slept in your bed, or ran down the corridors a hundred years ago.
They never go away.

***

– What about the rest of them? Do you think they'll ever have to go back to hell?
– Go back? I don't know. I think hell's something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go.

***

There must be a Hell. A place for demons. A place for the damned. Hell is Heaven's reflection. Heaven's shadow. They define each other. There must be a Hell for without Hell, Heaven has no meaning.

***

I think, well, I've had a shit of a life, all things considered. It wasn't fair. Everyone I've ever loved is dead, and my leg hurts all the bloody time... but I think, any God that can do sunsets like that, a different one every night... 'strewth, well, you've got to respect the old bastard, haven't you?

free_readings