No new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace.

In theory I am an agnostic, but pending the appearance of rational evidence I must be classed, practically and provisionally, as an atheist. The chance's of theism's truth being to my mind so microscopically small, I would be a pedant and a hypocrite to call myself anything else.

I felt myself on the edge of the world; peering over the rim into a fathomless chaos of eternal night.

Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.

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

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

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.