I felt very much like a hooker who had just been told she was a lady of the evening.
He had kissed her good night that night, and she had tasted like strawberry daiquiris, and he had never wanted to kiss anyone else again.
The past is always knocking at the door, trying to break through into today.
I always wanted to be a writer, but Alan Moore’s work and help inspired me to write comics. In some ways the biggest influence on me writing was Punk. There was the idea that you could do something by simply doing it.
Sexton: I think the whole world’s gone mad. Death: Uh-uh. It’s always like this. You probably just don’t get out enough.
Writing’s a lot like cooking. Sometimes the cake won’t rise, no matter what you do, and every now and again the cake tastes better than you ever could have dreamed it would.
Genre fiction, as Terry Pratchett has pointed out, is a stew. You take stuff out of the pot, you put stuff back. The stew bubbles on.
You know what killed off the dinosaurs, Whateley? We did. In one barbecue.
I move from dreamer to dreamer, from dream to dream, hunting for what I need. Slipping and sliding and flickering through the dreams; and the dreamer will wake, and wonder why this dream seemed different, wonder how real their lives can truly be.
Agnes was the worst prophet that’s ever existed. Because she was always right. That’s why the book never sold.
Some things are too big to be seen; some emotions are too huge to be felt.
Ray Bradbury was not ahead of his time. He was perfectly of his time, and more than that: he created his time and left his mark on the time that followed.
The real problem with stories – if you keep them going long enough, they always end in death.
Perhaps this is the ultimate freedom, eh, Dreamlord? The freedom to leave.
I could be blindfolded and dropped into the deepest ocean and I would know where to find you. I could be buried a hundred miles underground and I would know where you are.
Do you know why I stopped being Delight, my brother? I do. There are things not in your book. There are paths outside this garden.
Any way, death is so final, isn’t it? “Is it?” asked Richard. “Sometimes,” said the marquis de Carabas. And they went down.
There was a hysteria in there, certainly, but there was also the exhaustion of someone who had managed, somehow, to believe several dozen impossible things in the last twenty-four hours, without ever getting a proper breakfast.
For the record, I don’t expect you to believe any of this. Not really. I’m a liar by trade, after all; albeit, I like to think, an honest liar.
Something told him that something was coming to an end. Not the world, exactly. Just the summer. There would be other summers, but there would never be one like this. Ever again.