Of All The Objects Of Hatred, A

Fate Weaves The Darkness, Which Is Perhaps Why She Weaves So Badly.

Every Kind Of Writing Is Hypocritical.

A Quiet City Is A Contradiction In Terms. It Is A Thing Uncanny, Spectral.

Have You Noticed ... There Is Never Any Third Act In A Nightmare? They Bring You To A Climax Of Terror And Then Leave You There. They Are The Work Of Poor Dramatists.

For A Young Man, Sleep Is A Sure Solvent Of Distress. There Whirls Not For Him In The Night Any So Hideous Phantasmagoria As Will Not Become, In The Clarity Of The Next Morning, A Spruce Procession For Him To Lead. Brief The Vague Horror Of His Awakening; Memory Sweeps Back To Him, And He Sees Nothing Dreadful After All. "why Not?" Is The Sun's Bright Message To Him, And "why Not Indeed?" His Answer.