While my chosen form of story-writing is obviously a special and perhaps a narrow one, it is none the less a persistent and permanent type of expression, as old as literature itself. There will always be a certain small percentage of persons who feel a burning curiosity about unknown outer space, and a burning desire to escape from the prison-house of the known and the real into those enchanted lands of incredible adventure and infinite possibilities which dreams open up to us, and which things like deep woods, fantastic urban towers, and flaming sunsets momentarily suggest.

Life is a hideous thing.

And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished, for the small hours were rent with the screams of nightmare.

I am disillusioned enough to know that no man's opinion on any subject is worth a damn unless backed up with enough genuine information to make him really know what he's talking about.

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

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

Only poetry or madness could do justice to the noises.