tons of whelming rock!

I knew all the time that my thinking was foolish, and was even aware
of a certain undertone of contemptuous humour in it; but suddenly it
was checked, and I seemed again to hear the croak of the raven.

"If I know nothing of my own garret," I thought, "what is there to
secure me against my own brain? Can I tell what it is even now
generating?--what thought it may present me the next moment, the
next month, or a year away? What is at the heart of my brain? What
is behind my THINK? Am I there at all?--Who, what am I?"

I could no more answer the question now than when the raven put it
to me in--at--"Where in?--where at?" I said, and gave myself up as
knowing anything of myself or the universe.

I started to my feet, hurried across the room to the masked door,
where the mutilated volume, sticking out from the flat of soulless,
bodiless, non-existent books, appeared to beckon me, went down on
my knees, and opened it as far as its position would permit, but
could see nothing. I got up again, lighted a taper, and peeping as
into a pair of reluctant jaws, perceived that the manuscript was
verse. Further I could not carry discovery. Beginnings of lines
were visible on the left-hand page, and ends of lines on the other;
but I could not, of course, get at the beginning and end of a single
line, and was unable, in what I could read, to make any guess at
the sense. The mere words, however, woke in me feelings which to
describe was, from their strangeness, impossible. Some dreams, some
poems, some musical phrases, some pictures, wake feelings such as
one never had before, new in colour and form--spiritual sensations,