I didn't cry. Real things don't make me cry. Only false or sentimental things can do that. In this respect I'm like most civilised humans.
Humans are moving into a new phase, one based on the knowledge that talking about their feelings has never got them anywhere.
There’s a reason humans peg-out around eighty: prose fatigue. It looks like organ failure or cancer or stroke but it’s really just the inability to carry on clambering through the assault course of mundane cause and effect. If we ask Sheila then ...
You can't live in dread of something for long without beginning to crave it.
I've always said women make the best agents. Deceit comes naturally to them. It's hardly surprising: If you were born with a little hole half the population could stick its dick into whenever if felt like it you'd learn deceit too. Biology is destiny...
Human love didn't eradicate God, but it put Him into His proper distant second place.
Live long enough and nothing is news. 'The News' is 'the new things.' That's fine, until a hundred years go by and you realise there are no new things, only deep structures and cycles that repeat themselves through different period details.
You think horror enters spectacularly. It doesn't. It just prosaically turns up. Even in the first seconds you know you'll find it a room.
The first horror is there's horror. The second is you accommodate it.
All motivation derives from the primary fact of mortality. Take mortality away and motivation loses its...motivation.
By all means, become an abomination--but only while unhinged by grief or wrath.
You love life because life's all there is.
There's always someone's father, someone's mother, someone's wife, someone's son. This is the problem with killing and eating people. One of the problems.
I read somewhere that when you're a kid it's people's cruelty that makes you cry, then when you're an adult it's their kindness.
Werewolves are not a subject for academe,” she said, “but you know what the professors would be saying if they were. ‘Monsters die out when the collective imagination no longer needs them. Species death like this is nothing more than a shift in...
Mailer famously labeled writing the spooky art. He was right. There's a lot of frontal lobe blather, a lot of pencil-sharpening and knuckle-cracking and drafting and chat, but the big decisions are made in the locked subconscious, decisions not just ...
