Death doesn't exist. It never did, it never will. But we've drawn so many pictures of it, so many years, trying to pin it down, comprehend it,
we've got to thinking of it as an entity, strangely alive and greedy. All it is, however, is a stopped watch, a loss, an end, a darkness. Nothing.
Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes, 1962
A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in
Victor Hugo, Les Misérables, 1862
I see black light
The last words of Victor Hugo, 1802 - 1885
Before it can ever be a repose for the senses, landscape is the work of the mind.
Its scenery is built up as much from strata of memory as from layers of rock.
Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory, 1995
