We're both thieves, Harvey Swick. I take time. You take lives. But in the end we're the same: both Thieves of Always.

I'm a great dog fanatic. My own dog died a little while ago and I take it very personally when things die-it's a major offence.

There’s no conscious thing on the face of the world that doesn’t know dread more intimately than its own heartbeat.

Of course it’s the apparently tranquil periods that deceive us. Though our instruments or our senses or our wits may not be able to see the processes that are leading toward these clusters of events, they’re happening. The star, the wheel, the butterfly—all are in a subtle state of unrest, waiting for the moment when some invisible mechanism signals that the time has come. Then the star explodes; the wheel makes poor men rich; the butterfly mates and dies.

There is no such thing as originality. It has all been said before, suffered before. If a person knows that, is it any wonder love becomes mechanical and death just a scene to be shunned? There is no absolute knowledge to be gained from either. Just another ride on the merry-go-round, another blurred scene of faces smiling and faces grieved.

My imagination is my polestar; I steer by that.

Give me B movies or give me death!