The question ‘What was there before creation?’ is meaningless. Time is a property of creation, therefore before creation there was no before creation.
You can’t live in dread of something for long without beginning to crave it.
Extraordinary what the body remembers. The bones loded with love, grief silting the arteries, fear the bowels’ recurring mould. Who would have thought mere flesh and blood could hold so much of psyche’s ghostly script?
It’s why we close the eyes, too. The dead shouldn’t have to look on the lewd aliveness of the living.
Literature is humanity’s broad-minded alter-ego, with room in its heart for monsters, even for you. It’s humanity without the judgement.
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.
Life’s generally artless, but it does get these occasional hard-ons for plot. It connects things, nefariously, behind yor back, and before you know it you’re in a final act of a lousy movie. A lousy horror-movine, usually…
Nothing is the whole story. The self’s curse – and the writer’s.
We go to the past to lay the blame – since the past can’t argue. We go to our past selves to account for our present miseries.
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.
Humans are moving into a new phase, one based on the knowledge that talking about their feelings has never got them anywhere.
By all means, become an abomination–but only while unhinged by grief or wrath.
All motivation derives from the primary fact of mortality. Take mortality away and motivation loses its…motivation.
All vampires smoke. Smoking’s high on the list of Things You Take Up To Pass The Time.
It’s Big Brother with werewolves. Live coverage for a month, leading up to a group kill on full moon.
… vampire ruler Hin Kahur implemented howler aversion therapy.
Where ever there’s guilt there’s violence, and if guilt is a smell then violence is a taste: strawberries and formaldehyde and ironish blood.
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.
It rewrites the contract, I’d read somewhere. Your self’s no longer central. This thing comes out of you and drags half your soul along after it like a blanket.
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.
Whatever doesn’t kill them, makes them make reality TV shows…
Why do people who read Shakespeare still spend hours watching shitty TV or staring out of the window or arguing about whose dinner party to go to?
If you had a lot of money and you were miserable, you’d be miserable poor.
Cheney, Rumsfeld – they were Shakespearean in their attitude of impunity.
We’re in the age of the series, trilogy, boxed sets.