Midnight, and the clock strikes. It is Christmas Day, the werewolves birthday, the door of the solstice still wide enough open to let them all slink through.

If the Barbarians are destroyed, who will we then be able to blame for the bad things?

Irish was a man of parts even if some of them didn't work too well.

He is the intermediary between us, his audience, the living, and they, the dolls, the undead, who cannot live at all and yet who mimic the living in every detail since, though they cannot speak or weep, still they project those signals of signification we instantly recognize as language.

My mother learned that she was carrying me at about the same time the Second World War was declared; with the family talent for magic realism, she once told me she had been to the doctor's on the very day.

Is not this world an illusion? And yet it fools everybody.

I am entirely alone. I and my shadow fill the universe.