My father had taught me - mostly by example - that if a man wanted to be in charge of his life, he had to be in charge of his problems.

I write about rats because they scare the hell out of me. I think we tend to write out our phobias.

I’ve always said to people, "I don’t care what you call me as long as the checks don’t bounce and the family gets fed." But I never saw myself that way. I just saw myself as a novelist.

This is probably the single great subject of horror fiction: our need to cope with a mystery that can be understood only with the aid of a helpful imagination.

Do they see the lethal insanity of a race to the brink of oblivion, and then over the edge? Apparently not. If they did, surely they wouldn't be racing to begin with. Or is it a simple failure of imagination? One doesn't like to think such a rudimentary failing could bring about the end, yet...

You couldn't not like someone who liked the guitar.

Get busy living, or get busy dying.