For I have always been a seeker, a dreamer, and a ponderer on seeking and dreaming.

I could not help feeling that they were evil things -- mountains of madness whose farther slopes looked out over some accursed ultimate abyss.

Nyarlathotep . . . the crawling chaos . . . I am the last . . . I will tell the audient void. . . .

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

I never ask a man what his business is, for it never interests me. What I ask him about are his thoughts and dreams.

Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness.

I am writing this under an appreciable mental strain, since by tonight I shall be no more. Penniless, and at the end of my supply of the drug which alone makes life endurable, I can bear the torture no longer; and shall cast myself from this garret window into the squalid street below.