There's nothing like stories on a windy night when folks have found a warm place in a cold world.

He sat upon his throne, which is made of skulls.

There's a Mr. Hyde for every happy Jekyll face, a dark face on the other side of the mirror. The brain behind that face never heard of razors, prayers, or the logic of the universe. You turn the mirror sideways and see your face reflected with a sinister left-hand twist, half mad and half sane.

I don't want to speak too disparagingly of my generation (actually I do, we had a chance to change the world and opted for the Home Shopping Network instead), but there was a view among the student writers I knew at that time that good writing came spontaneously, in an uprush of feeling that had to be caught at once; when you were building that all-important stairway to heaven, you couldn't just stand around with your hammer in your hand.

No one ever does live happily ever after, but we leave the children to find that out for themselves.

If you were seeing a lot of horseshit, there had to be a pony in the vicinity.

Dead was the gift that kept on giving. Dead, like diamonds, was forever.