By day there were even a few landmarks remaining-forlorn signposts that would be dismantled in time-by which the traveler could chart his route. Indeed, he took pleasure in its desolate splendor: its perspectives tinged lilac by the dust that still settled from the stratosphere, its squares and parkways so unnaturally silent the sense he had, trespassing here, that this was what the end of the world would be like. But after almost three months of plying his trade here, the thief had become used to navigating this urban wilderness. Even in the more accessible districts the once-elegant facades swooned dangerously, their foundations growling. Mountains of rubble-still nurturing the dead like bulbs ready to sprout as the spring weather warmed-clogged the streets. Several sectors were virtually impassable by vehicle. Eighty-five percent of Warsaw had been leveled, either by the months of mortar bombardment that had preceded the Russian liberation of the city, or by the program of demolition the Nazis had undertaken before their retreat. YEATS, The Hour Glass 1 The air was electric the day the thief crossed the city, certain that tonight, after so many weeks of frustration, he would finally locate the card-player. A Lake of Spaces, and a Wood of Nothing, And wander there and drift, and never cease Wailing for substance. SHELLY, Prometheus Unbound Part One TERRA INCOGNITA Hell is the place of those who have denied They find there what they planted and what dug. The Damnation Game by Clive Barker Copyright 1985 Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like slaves, From chance, and death, and mutability.
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