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By and large, horror fiction is the most difficult to domesticate because part of the point is that it's one step ahead – or behind – everybody else's taste. And I'm not really convinced I'd like it to change. There's something very healthy about horror fiction being always a little bit on the outside. It's the wild-dog genre.
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We are all our own graveyards I believe; we squat amongst the tombs of the people we were. If we're healthy, every day is a celebration, a Day of the Dead, in which we give thanks for the lives that we lived; and if we are neurotic we brood and mourn and wish that the past was still present.
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I've held a brain in my hands, which is an extraordinary experience.
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Of course, there was Hobart. The Inspector was probably insane, but that was all to the good. And he had one particular aspiration which Shadwell knew he might one day need to turn to his own ends. That was, to lead-as Hobart put it-a righteous crusade.
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Always the sightseers: open-mouthed, disbelieving. There was a force for desolation loose in their midst which could consume their lives at a glance, surely they could see that? But they’d watch anyway, willing to embrace the void if it came with sufficient razzmatazz.
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The paintings of Francis Bacon to my eye are very beautiful. The paintings of Bosch or Goya are to my eye very beautiful. I've also stood in front of those same paintings with people who've said, 'let's get on to the Botticellis as soon as possible.' I have lingered, of course.
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If we have nothing to do but service our own pleasure – because society has taught us that's all we're worth and we're exiled from positions of authority from which we could actually shape society – then we just become hedonists. Eventually, despite how great it may look on Saturday night, come Monday morning there's just purposelessness.
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Every body is a book of blood;Wherever we're opened, we're red.
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Life is short,and pleasures few,and holed the ship,and drowned the crew,But O! But O!How very bluethe sea is!
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Writing a book is like masturbation, and making a movie is like an orgy.
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Godhood called, and he went, fleet-footed, to worship at his own altar.
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Your average game show host on TV, for instance, doesn't believe himself to be banal. He actually thinks that he's quite interesting. And if you look at the viewing figures, so do an enormous number of people in this country.
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So he believes. The truth may be more...complex.
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'Believe nothing,' Apolline advised. 'This woman wouldn’t know the truth if it fucked her.'
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Lilia sighed. 'Why me?' she said, still shaking. 'Why should I have to tell it?''Because you’re the best liar,' Jerichau replied with a tight smile. 'You can make it true.'
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Here is a list of fearful things:The jaws of sharks, a vulture's wings,The rabid bite of the dog's of war,The voice of one who went before.But most of all the mirror's gaze,which counts us out our numbered days.
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Perhaps there was a natural process at work here; a means by which the mind dealt with experiences that contradicted a lifetime’s prejudices about the nature of reality. People simple forgot.
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There was such sanity in his voice; a politician’s sanity, as he sold his flock the wisdom of the bomb. This soulless certainty was more chilling than hysteria or malice.
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Suzanna didn’t wait for confirmation. There was no use disbelieving the worst now.
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Memory, prophecy and fantasy the past, the future and the dreaming moment between are all one country, living one immortal day. To know that is Wisdom. To use it is the Art.
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What the enemy believed of you was probably true, or else why were you enemies in the first place?
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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.
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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.
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...Take this all of you and eat it. This is my body which will be given up for you...Old words; old rituals. But they still made sound commercial sense.Talk of Power and Might would always attract an audience. Lords never went out of fashion.