I go to London and see the busy multitudes in Fleet Street and the Strand, and it comes across my mind that they are but the ghosts of the past, haunting the streets that I have seen silent and wretched, going to and fro, phantasms in a dead city, the mockery of life in a galvanized body.
H. G. Wells, The War of the Worlds
The further I penetrated into London, the profounder grew the stillness. But it was not the stillness of death—it was the stillness of suspense, of expectation.
H. G. Wells, The War of the Worlds
I think everyone expected to see a man emerge—possibly something a little unlike us terrestrial men, but in all essentials a man. I know I did. But, looking, I presently say something stirring withing the shadow: greyish billowy movements, one above another, and then two luminous discs—like eyes.
H. G. Wells, The War of the Worlds
He struck me as being a very beautiful and graceful creature, but indescribably frail. His flushed face reminded me of the more beautiful kind of consumptive—that hectic beauty of which we used to hear so much.
H. G. Wells, The Time Machine
I felt a peculiar shrinking from those pallid bodies. They were just the half-bleached colour of the worms and things one sees preserved in spirit in a zoological museum.
H. G. Wells, The Time Machine
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Saturday, 9th February
I had uttered prayers, fetish prayers, had prayed as heathens mutter charms when I was in extremity; but now I prayed indeed, pleading steadfastly and sanely, face to face with the darkness of God.
H. G. Wells, The War of the Worlds
I cannot convey the sense of abominable desolation that hung over the world. The red eastern sky, the northward blackness, the salt Dead Sea, the stony beach crawling with these foul, slow-stirring monsters, the uniform poisonous-looking green of the lichenous plants, the thin air that hurts one’s lungs; all contributed to an appalling effect.
H. G. Wells, The Time Machine
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Wednesday, 20th February
I grieved to think how brief the dream of the human intellect had been. It had committed suicide.
H. G. Wells, The Time Machine
Necessarily my memory is vague. Great shapes like big machines rose out of the dimness, and cast grotesque black shadows, in which dim spectral Morlocks sheltered from the glare.
H. G. Wells, The Time Machine