John Ruskin you mad, creaky Victorian bastard. You may think the use of iron in buildings stops them being architecture, but you can write like a motherfucker when you want to.
“There is a marked likeness between the virtue of man and the enlightenment of the globe he inhabits – the same diminishing gradation in vigour up to the limits of their domains, the same essential separation from their contraries – the same twilight at the meeting of the two: a something wider belt than the line where the world rolls into night, that strange twilight of the virtues; that dusky debatable land, wherein zeal becomes cruelty, and faith superstition, and each and all vanish into gloom.”
I think that’s one fucking sentence? Usually I loath long sentences but I cannot deny he makes every part of that one sing.