I could never write about strange kingdoms. I could never do Harry Potter or anything like that. Even when I did science-fiction, I didnt write about foreign planets and distant futures. I certainly never did fantasies about trolls living under bridges.

And, before science had caught up with the legend, the legend had swallowed science and everything.

That's what was wrong with drinking too much. You became immune to drunken delights. There was no solace in liquor. Before you got happy, you collapsed.

Quiet is here and all in me. ("Dress of White Silk")

I felt puny and absurd, a ludicrous midget. Easy enough to talk of soul and spirit and existential worth, but not when you're three feet tall.

Really now, search your soul, lovie-is the vampire so bad? All he does is drink blood.

What would a Mohammedan vampire do if faced with a cross?