It hurt, of course, but more often than not the best things do, I've found.

Put an egg in your shoe and beat it, make like a tree and leave, imitate an amoeba and split.

The town has a sense, not of history, but of time, and the telephone poles seem to know this. If you lay your hand against one, you can feel the vibration from the wires deep within the wood, as if souls had been imprisoned in there and were struggling to get out.

The quiet, singing voice of the rose. The song that promised all might be well, all might be well, that all manner of things might be well.

and then woe is you, Pauly. Woe to the max.

Most gothics are overplotted novels whose success or failure hinges on the author's ability to make you believe in the characters and partake of the mood.

We live in a society now where the sexual taboo for children has really passed by the wayside. Any nineyear-old can go into a 7-11 and check out the Playmate of the Month, but you don't want your kids to know about death. You don't want your kids to know about disfigurement. You don't want 'em to know about creepy things because it might warp their little minds.