The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them. They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen.

There was really nothing for serious men to do in cases of wild gossip, for superstitious rustics will say and believe anything.

The end is near. I hear a noise at the door, as of some immense slippery body lumbering against it. It shall not find me. God, that hand! The window! The window!

Vigorous let us be in attaining our ends, and mild in our method of attainment.

Ultimate horror often paralyses memory in a merciful way.

But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travellers notoriously false?

Life has never interested me so much as the escape from life.