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

Nothing is a matter of life and death except life and death.

He was a lovely man in many ways. But he kept on insisting on forgiving me when there was nothing to forgive.

It is, perhaps, a better thing to be valued only as an object of passion than never to be valued at all.

Anxiety is the beginning of conscience, which is the parent of the soul but is not compatible with innocence.

Not for Moorcock the painful, infrequent excretion of dry little novels like so many rabbit pellets; his is the grand, messy fluxitself, in all its heroic vulgarity, its unquenchable optimism, its enthusiasm for the inexhaustible variousness of things.

The end of all stories, even if the writer forebears to mention it, is death, which is where time stops short. Sheherezade knew this, which is why she kept on spinning another story out of the bowels of the last one, never coming to a point where she could say: "This is the end." Because it would have been.