A soul of water a soul of stone. A soul by name a soul unknown. The hours unmake our flesh our bone. The Soul is all and all alone!
Often people who are wonderful with animals aren’t always terribly good with human beings.
We’re both thieves, Harvey Swick. I take time. You take lives. But in the end we’re the same: both Thieves of Always.
I’m a great dog fanatic. My own dog died a little while ago and I take it very personally when things die-it’s a major offence.
Even winter – the hardest season, the most implacable – dreams, as February creeps on, of the flame that will presently melt it away. Everything tires with time, and starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself.
Books should make somebody look at how they feel, be honest with themselves.
I don’t take accusations of selling out lightly.
My life is in the art that I make, and I’m very happy with it.
For a writer, and particularly a writer of my genre, which is the fantastical, I think that it’s to my advantage to feel remote from and disconnected from the world of deal making.
But I think humans are innately religious as a species, so you don’t need a specific excuse for examining the perversely unholy.
All I ever wanted to do is darken the day and brighten the night.
I don’t like to make a distinction between the writer and the painter, finally, because I do both things anyway. Everybody’s dreaming and trying to put down their dreams in the way that their hand knows best. I feel as much a unity, as much comradeship, with painters as I do writers .
My imagination is my polestar; I steer by that.
O little one, My little one, Come with me, Your life is done. Forget the future, Forget the past. Life is over: Breathe your last.
I was a weird little kid. I was very irritable, bored, frustrated. I felt my imagination bubbling inside my head without having any way to express itself. Given a crayon and paper, I would not draw a train or a house. I would draw these monsters, beasts and demons.
Witch, do this for me, Find me a moon made of longing. Then cut it sliver thin, and having cut it, hang it high above my beloved’s house, so that she may look up tonight and see it, and seeing it, sigh for me as I sigh for her, moon or no moon.
True joy is a profound remembering; and true grief the same.
She wanted nothing that he could offer her, except perhaps his absence.
The monsters act out our rage. They act on their worst impulses, which is appealing to a certain part of us. They get punished for it, but we’ve enjoyed the spectacle of their liberation.
One part of love is innocence One part of love is guilt One part the milk that in a sense Is soured as soon as spilt One part of love is sentiment One part of love is lust One part is the presentiment Of our return to dust.