There was Sepulchrave, moving as though in a trance, his tired soul in his eyes, and books beneath his arms. All about were his chains of office, iron and gold. On his head he wore the rust-red crown of the Groans. He took deep sighs with every step, as though each one was the last. Bent forward as though his sorrow weighed him down, he mourned with every gesture. As he moved into the centre of the ring he trailed behind him a long line of feathers, while out of his tragic mouth the sound of hooting wandered.
Mervyn Peake, from Titus Alone (Eyre & Spottiswoode 1959)
image from here















