Study Nothing Except In The Knowledge That

You Cut Up A Thing That's Alive And Beautiful To Find Out How It's Alive And Why It's Beautiful, And Before You Know It, It's Neither Of Those Things, And You're Standing There With Blood On Your Face And Tears In Your Sight And Only The Terrible Ache Of Guilt To Show For It.

There Is No Such Thing As Originality. It Has All Been Said Before, Suffered Before. If A Person Knows That, Is It Any Wonder Love Becomes Mechanical And Death Just A Scene To Be Shunned? There Is No Absolute Knowledge To Be Gained From Either. Just Another Ride On The Merry-go-round, Another Blurred Scene Of Faces Smiling And Faces Grieved.

Whatever Capacity She Possesses To Supernaturally Beguile A Human Soul—and She Possesses Many—she Liked His Clear-sightedness Too Well, To Blind Him That Way.

At Best You Can Hold Death At Bay, You Can Pretend It Isn't There; But To Deny It Totally Is A Sickness. And I Think That Horror Fiction Is One Of The Ways To Approach These Problems, And, Perversely Perhaps, To Enjoy A Vicarious Confrontation With Them.

Study Nothing Except In The Knowledge That You Already Knew It. Worship Nothing Except In Adoration Of Your True Self. And Fear Nothing Except In The Certainty That You Are Your Enemy's Begetter And Its Only Hope Of Healing.