In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulu waits dreaming

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

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

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

I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men.

Creative minds are uneven, and the best of fabrics have their dull spots.

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