The great grey beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive.
After all, where can the glorious, the goofy, and the god-like stand shoulder to shoulder?
I’ve never worked where it was hard to be gay. Besides, being gay is a spectacular irrelevance to getting on with your life.
Behind their eyes the hope was sickening and in many, dead. They lived from event to event with a subtle terror of the gap between, filling up their lives with distractions to avoid the emptiness where curiosity should have been.
To you who have never died, may I say: Welcome to the world!
We are the star and the darkness it peirces.
Walk with care in dark places, and do not put your faith in anyone who promises you the forgiveness of the Lord or a certain place in Paradise.
At best you can hold death at bay, you can pretend it isn’t there; but to deny it totally is a sickness. And I think that horror fiction is one of the ways to approach these problems, and, perversely perhaps, to enjoy a vicarious confrontation with them.
Sooner or later even the most ambitious glutton must crawl away and seek the solace of the vomitorium.
Words are sexier than flesh.
Believe me, when I say; There are no two powers That command the soul. One is God The other is the tide. -Anon From the novel Abarat.
Writing about the unholy is one way of writing about what is sacred.
You have to taste the sour urine before you break the jug.
Leavening the flat bread of what we know, with the yeast of what we dream may come to pass.
Your flesh is killing your spirit. You have forsaken yourself.
We each die countless little deaths on our way to the last. We die out of shame as humiliation. We perish from despair. And, of course, we die for love.
I’ve dealt with a lot of producers who were pricks and I’m determined not to be that.
I never want to be the producer that I too often got.
All is death, woman. All is pain. Love breeds loss. Isolation breeds resentment. No matter which way we turn, we are beaten. Our only true inheritance is death. And our only legacy, dust.
Of course it’s the apparently tranquil periods that deceive us. Though our instruments or our senses or our wits may not be able to see the processes that are leading toward these clusters of events, they’re happening. The star, the wheel, the butterfly – all are in a subtle state of unrest, waiting for the moment when some invisible mechanism signals that the time has come. Then the star explodes; the wheel makes poor men rich; the butterfly mates and dies.