If this book has made any point clear, I hope it's that things don't have to be real to be true. Or vice versa.

Adults...struggle desperately with fiction, demanding constantly that it conform to the rules of everyday life. Adults foolishly demand to know how Superman can possibly fly, or how Batman can possibly run a multibillion-dollar business empire during the day and fight crime at night, when the answer is obvious even to the smallest child: because it's not real.

We love our superheroes because they refuse to give up on us. We can analyze them out of existence, kill them, ban them, mock them, and still they return, patiently reminding us of who we are and what we wish we could be.

Sometimes... sometimes I think the Asylum is a head. We're inside a huge head that dreams us all into being. Perhaps it's your head, Batman. Arkham is a looking glass... and we are you.

I'm a fan myself, so I try to write the kind of comics I want to read.

Hell changes constantly but there are certain consistent landmarks which always stay in the same relation to one another.

It's so horrible to realize you're just the same as everyone else, isn't it?