To take my work seriously would be the height of folly.
I thought I’d be a librarian until I met some crazy ones.
The helpful thought for which you look Is written somewhere in a book.
There was a young lady named Mae Who smoked without stopping all day; As pack followed pack, Her lungs first turned black, And eventually rotted away.
Some tiny creature, mad with wrath, is coming nearer on the path.
The Suicide, as she is falling, Illuminated by the moon, Regrets her act, and finds appalling The thought she will be dead so soon.
Only art means anything.
Vice is nice, but a little virtue won’t hurt you.
If you’re doing nonsense it has to be rather awful, because there’d be no point.
I really think I write about everyday life. I don’t think I’m quite as odd as others say I am.
God knows, there’s enough to worry about without worrying about worrying about things.
I feel that I am doing the minimum amount of damage to other possibilities that may take place in a reader’s head.
The world may think it idiotic, Nor care at all we’re symbiotic, But I will say at once and twice: I find it nice. I find it nice.
I’ve never had any intentions about anything. That’s why I am where I am today, which is neither here nor there, in a literal sense.
Not everything in life can be interpreted metaphorically; that’s because things fall out on the way.
I don’t know what it is I’m doing. But it’s not that. Despite all evidence to the contrary.
I tend to be rather inconsequential and trail off.
What is, is, and what might have been could never have existed.
Z is for Zillah who drank too much gin.
Interviewer: What is your greatest regret? Gorey: That I don’t have one.