I'd be happy with this summer if it's all we ever had.
This is probably the single great subject of horror fiction: our need to cope with a mystery that can be understood only with the aid of a helpful imagination.
Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.
What Darwin was too polite to say, my friends, is that we came to rule the earth not because we were the smartest, or even the meanest, but because we have always been the craziest, most murderous motherfuckers in the jungle.
Come to a book as you would come to an unexplored land. Come without a map. Explore it, and draw your own map. . . . A book is like a pump. It gives nothing unless first you give to it.
The trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool.
The place where you made your stand never mattered. Only that you were there. . . and still on your feet.
No other group (traditional Christians) is so consistently maligned on prime-time television. These defamatory portrayals betray a deep-seated hostility.
If string theory is right, the microscopic fabric of our universe is a richly intertwined multidimensional labyrinth within which the strings of the universe endlessly twist and vibrate, rhythmically beating out the laws of the cosmos.
Even as fog continues to lie in the valleys, so does ancient sin cling to the low places, the depressions in the world consciousness.
All the many brands of suppression - racism, sexism, heterosexism, ageism, classism - are historical; they have not been always with us. It was not ever thus. And it's not going to be this way, come the revolution!