The Flight to Lucifer by Harold Bloom

By Perscors's reckoning, it should have been no more than early afternoon, yet he stood on the tableland in twilight. Though the bitter cold had abated, a strong wind blew against him. In the uncertain light, he sensed that there were presences in front of him, but still at considerable distances away. The will to go forward, whether to or against them, was strong in him, yet he felt his solitude in a way he never had experienced. He examined, as best he could in the growing darkness, the scene before him.

No part of Enosh's description seemed true, since this huge, rocky plain hardly could be disputed as grazing land. But Perscors had learned already, in his few hours on the planet, that both time and place were curiously inconstant on Lucifer. He had learned also to trust his own daemonic inwardness, which told him now that he stood upon enchanted ground, and which encouraged him to explore the mysteries that awaited him. His earthly sense of failure had left him, whether in the tower or on Lucifer he could not tell, and in its stead had come a keen sense of election. On this world, where lost eras of earth's spiritual history seemed to linger, he had found in himself a conviction of purposiveness. So far, it was a purposiveness without purpose, but he felt that the meaning would be revealed, and would be a true test for him. His ignorance might be a dark fire, but it was a fire nevertheless, and he believed he would burn through every concealment that Lucifer might thrust between his spark and the truth.