“What is hell? Hell is oneself. Hell is alone, the other figures in it Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from And nothing to escape to. One is always alone.”

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions.

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

We must not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we began and to know the place for the first time.

For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.

This is the way the world ends not with a bang but a whimper.

Teach us to care and not to care

If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?

I can connect Nothing with nothing

For you know only a heap of broken images

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, and I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, and in short, I was afraid.

The very existence of libraries affords the best evidence that we may yet have hope for the future of man

I am moved by fancies that are curled, around these images and cling, the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

Don’t be a writer. Writing is an escape from something. You be a scientist.

At the age of fourteen I discovered writing as an escape from a world of reality in which I felt acutely uncomfortable.

The past is our definition. We may strive with good reason to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it. But we will escape it only by adding something better to it.

The ‘punch’ of a truly weird tale is simply some violation or transcending of fixed cosmic law – an imaginative escape from palling reality – hence, phenomena rather than persons are the logical ‘heroes.’

Yes. A man will talk about how he’d like to escape from living folks. But it’s the dead folks that do him the damage. It’s the dead ones that lay quiet in one place and dont try to hold him, that he cant escape from.

I was raised in a really terrific, close family, and I’ve never needed to escape anything or to really let myself go by dancing on tables.

No country that permits firearms to be widely and randomly distributed among its population – especially firearms that are capable of wounding and killing human beings – can expect to escape violence, and a great deal of violence.

How did I escape? With difficulty. How did I plan this moment? With pleasure!