Imagine an American Hans Christian Andersen, conceive of the Brothers Grimm living in Missouri, and you will approximate Howard Schwartz, a fable-maker and fable-gatherer seduced by the uncanny and the unearthly. In Lilith's Cave, he once again reaches into a magical cornucopia of folklore and fantasy and spreads before us, in enchanting language, the marvels and shocks of dybbuks, ghosts, demons, spirits, and wizards.

After a certain number of years, our faces become our biographies.

What I felt then I feel now: the inexorable, unchanging interior hum of doubt and hope.

Godlessness invariably produces vulgarity. Civilization is the product of belief.

He who cries, 'What do I care about universality? I only know what is in me,' does not know even that.

In real life wishing, divorced from willing, is sterile and begets nothing.

One reason writers write is out of revenge.