They crashed the front door and grabbed at a woman, though she was not running, she was not trying to escape. She was only standing, weaving from side to side, her eyes fixed upon a nothingness in the wall as if they had struck her a terrible blow upon the head. Her tongue was moving in her mouth, and her eyes seemed to be trying to remember something, and then they remembered and her tongue moved again: "Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.

Don't they get afraid, then?" "They have a religion for that.

There's no reason to burn books if you don't read them.

Memory is an illusion, nothing more. It is a fire that needs constant tending.

I don't need an alarm clock. My ideas wake me.

Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness.

All of the good, weird stories I’ve written are based on things I’ve dredged out of my subconscious. That’s the real stuff. Everything else is fake.