A book is simply the container of an idea-like a bottle; what is inside the book is what matters.

Drosselmeier had unwittingly exposed himself to an overdose of reality, and it had destroyed his reason.

Strangers used to gather together at the cinema and sit together in the dark, like Ancient Greeks participating in the mysteries, dreaming the same dream in unison.

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

All artists, they say, are a little mad. This madness is, to a certain extent, a self-created myth designed to keep the generality away from the phenomenally close-knit creative community. Yet, in the world of the artists, the consciously eccentric are always respectful and admiring if those who have the courage to be genuinely a little mad.

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.

I know that whenever a group of women are gathered together, the grandmother always makes a phantom appearance, hovering above them.