I am still reading Mary Shelley's THE LAST MAN.
I love her writing style. Such grandiose metaphors.
"Does not a stream, boundless as ocean, deep as vacuum, yawn between us?”
"his manner calm as the earthquake-cradling atmosphere,"
"famine was welcomed as the kind porter to the gates of death"
"the checked waters of misery would have deluged her soul,"
"the fires of heaven rise from the East, moving in their accustomed
path, they ascend and descend the skiey hill. When their course is
fulfilled, the dial begins to cast westward an uncertain shadow; the
eye-lids of day are opened, and birds and flowers, the startled
vegetation, and fresh breeze awaken; the sun at length appears, and in
majestic procession climbs the capitol of heaven."