Life is a hideous thing.

I was nearly unnerved at my proximity to a nameless thing at the bottom of a pit.

All life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other.

Pleasure to me is wonder—the unexplored, the unexpected, the thing that is hidden and the changeless thing that lurks behind superficial mutability.

In theory I am an agnostic, but pending the appearance of rational evidence I must be classed, practically and provisionally, as an atheist. The chance's of theism's truth being to my mind so microscopically small, I would be a pedant and a hypocrite to call myself anything else.

When Randolph Carter was thirty he lost the key of the gate of dreams.

Sometimes one feels that it would be merciful to tear down these houses, for they must often dream.