Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or mountainous; that ocean is not silent.

The sea can bind us to her many moods, whispering to us by the subtle token of a shadow or a gleam upon the waves, and hinting in these ways of her mournfulness or rejoicing. Always she is remembering old things, and these memories, though we may not grasp them, are imparted to us, so that we share her gaiety or remorse.

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

That's because only a real artist knows the actual anatomy of the terrible or the physiology of fear - the exact sort of lines and proportions that connect up with latent instincts or hereditary memories of fright, and the proper colour contrasts and lighting effects to stir the dormant sense of strangeness.

In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity of my narrative.

The most merciful thing in the world... is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.

What a man does for pay is of little significance. What he is, as a sensitive instrument responsive to the world's beauty, is everything!