Everyone loves the Dream but I kill it.

What miracle is this? This giant tree. It stands ten thousand feet high But doesn't reach the ground. Still it stands. Its roots must hold the sky.

Even the brightest magnesium flare can do little against such dark except blind the eyes of the one holding it. Thus one craves what by seeing one has in fact not seen.

Her smile, I'm sure, burnt Rome to the ground.

I believe the structure of 'House of Leaves' is far more difficult to explain than it is to read. And while I'd like to lay claim to some extraordinary act of originality, truth is I'm only taking advantage of capabilities inherent in everyone.

Scars are the paler pain of survival received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury.

Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say. Of course those who write short books have even less to say.