The announcement that there is a League of Extraordinary Gentlemen television series hasn’t caused me to drastically alter my opinions. Now it seems they are recycling things that have already proven not to work.
I wouldn’t be the person I am today if it wasn’t for the opportunities the library gave me.
I don’t distinguish between magic and art. When I got into magic, I realised I had been doing it all along, ever since I wrote my first pathetic story or poem when I was twelve or whatever. This has all been my magic, my way of dealing with it.
I’ve known a lot of people go mad over the years, and it is more distressing than people dying. People dying is quite natural, people going mad is the complete antithesis of that.
Material existence is entirely founded on a phantom realm of mind, whose nature and geography are unexplored.
Life isn’t divided into genres.
If we loved Steve Aylett, really loved him in the way that he deserves, a selfless love that genuinely wanted nothing save his happiness and comfort, we’d lobotomise him.
I’m not a particularly dark individual. I have my moments, it’s true, but I do have a sense of humor.
I suppose that the main drive is to find the edge of something and then throw myself over it.
There is an inverse relationship between imagination and money.
I despise the comic industry, but I will always love the comic medium.
The more I look at most of the art movements, it’s all occultism, when you get down to it. The Surrealists were openly talking about being magicians.
The Here-and-Now demands attention, is more present to us. We dismiss the inner world of our ideas as less important, although most of our immediate physical reality originated only in the mind. The TV, sofa, clock and room, the whole civilisation that contains them once were nothing save ideas.
The entire universe – for one thing – only exists in your perceptions. That’s all you’re gonna see of it. To all practical intents and purposes this is purely some kind of lightshow that’s being put on in the kind of neurons in our brain. The whole of reality.
Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing ever ends.
It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, but for three years I had roses, and apologized to no one.
I’m the idea of the human imagination, which, when you think about it, is the only thing we can really be certain ISN’T imaginary.
Our consciousness, a startling outgrowth of the universe, is possibly its most important part, the fraction of existence that can think, feel, marvel at itself.
Consciousness, unprovable by scientific standards, is forever, then, the impossible phantom in the predictable biologic machine, and your every thought a genuine supernatural event. Your every thought is a ghost, dancing.
As I see it, part of the art of being a hero is knowing when you don’t need to be one anymore.