Hope for the best, expect the worst.

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.

He is, I think, already pondering a magisterial project: that of buggering the English language, the ultimate revenge of the colonialised.

I see her as a series of marvellous shapes formed at random in the kaleidoscope of desire.

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.

At the best of times, spring hurts depressives.

Pornography is a satire on human pretensions.