Books were flying everywhere: they came from out of the window above, two storeys up.
"None of these are worthy!" "There is no plot! No finery! No intrigue ... no answer! And the endings are crap!"
Ralph was perplexed, for his grandfather had adored his books and kept the largest library in the suburb.
Thousands of jackets over the years, ordered and catalogued - and now, he was trashing them in some kind of ecstasy of revelation?
The truth of it was that Alfonzo had been losing his sight - his blue eyes were turning to milk - and the books were no longer readable to him. He was fast losing his concentration and his thoughts were a jumble. The same phrases would keep repeating endlessly in his head, making comprehension impossible.
-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series
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