I held out my book. It was precious to me, as were all the things I'd written; even where I despised their inadequacy there was not one I would disown. Each tore its way from my entrails. Each had shortened my life, killed me with its own special little death.

Im a devotee of Dracula, which was a pathfinder in horror and vampire fiction.

No one more cynical than an idealist.

The dictate of the light says: Know yourself and what you are. The dark replies, By all means, but then become afraid.

How massively the mountains stand, while low to the ground the sand blows. The sand blows on and on. And then there are no mountains, none at all, the sand has kissed and whispered them away. And still, the sand blows on.

I began to feel lighthearted. Don't ever do that; it tempts some dark and evil force abroad in the universe.

I never know where I am going, though. That is part of what makes it so wonderful. And after all, who does?