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"Prague did not know Domek, did not need him, but his life was overlaid on the ancient streets in watercolor, the patterns sheer and impermanent."

"She clenches her fists against the fear that strikes her upon hearing that voice again, brittle as dry leaves, gritty as crushed shells in the sea. Sand crunches between her molars. The taste of salt and copper coats her tongue.
A terrible moan rises above the building noise of the storm."

"In a place like this, your mind expands as the dark end of your imagination blooms, and you wonder if human depravity has any bottom at all, and if it does not, what hope is there for any of us?"

"Oppressive power is preserved in the smoke and fog, and sometimes it is smuggled in the unexamined shadows of the language of the oppressed themselves."

"The temptation of it all: herbs still growing at this time of year, so tender they would be bruised by a child's bare foot; friendly shrubbery, perfect for hide-and-seek; rabbits to practice archery on; fat blackberries, plump hazelnuts; the great black- and gray- and violet-barked trees rising into unseen heights,a canopy so far up you almost could not perceive individual leaves, only their shouts of
crimson,..."

"It was intestines undulating nervously.

It was a moth trapped inside a rib cage.

It was a crumbling, dead leaf, detaching from a branch and zigzagging onto a pond."

"While the stars in their orbits wheeled and turned, and the sky in the east did lighten, and the fires ate and ate and did not die."

"There she is," said Thiago, pointing out through the pall. "The House of Hunger."
It was a fearsome thing, At least six stories tall, it seemed to crouch on the distant horizon like a spider lurking in wait of its prey. Its windows, too, were arachnid; candlelit and glowing, they seemed to gaze like eyes, all-seeing, into the vastness of the marshland and the open ocean behind it.

"Was Hell like this? Not a burning inferno but humid and cloying, the air thick with the tastes of sulfur and gunpowder, the clammy fingertips of the dead grasping at her, seeking her soul and dragging her down, down, down..."

"A man whose name is not Dorian sits alone at a table in the corner, his back to the wall. The wall sports a pair of deer antlers, a taxidermied pheasant, and a portrait of a young man hung as a traiter in a war no one living now remembers. The still-living man in front of the painting faces out toward the rest of the bar in a way that suggests he is watching the entire space and not one other table in particular."

" I turned away. Behind me, the lake continued to pulse and dance under the worried sliver of moon."