The dusk reeks of fornication and bad consciences.

There has been a rather unpleasant sensibility apparent in Frank Miller's work for quite a long time.

There are people. There are stories. The people think they shape the stories, but the reverse if often closer to the truth. Stories shape the world. They exist independently of people, and in places quite devoid of man, there may yet be mythologies.

If you look at that incredible burst of fantastic characters that emerged in the late 19th century/early 20th century, you can see so many of the fears and hopes of those times embedded in those characters. Even in throwaway bits of contemporary culture you can often find some penetrating insights into the real world around us.

It wasn't so much all the sex that robbed me of my moral bearings, but all the narcotics. I must say, there's something about opium that goes very well with lesbianism.

The magician to some degree is trying to drive him or herself mad in a controlled setting, within controlled laws.

It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, but for three years I had roses, and apologized to no one.