“Horror itself in that fair scene looks gay, And joy springs up e’en in the midst of fear.”

For when last need to desperation driveth, Who dareth most he wiseth counsel giveth.

Lost is the time that you don’t spend for love.

Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, his locks were grey, yet was his courage green.

Perhaps if only once you did enjoy The thousandth part of all the happiness A heart beloved enjoys, returning love, Repentant, you would surely sighing say, “All time is truly lost and gone Which is not spent in serving love.”

A friend giveth sympathy in trouble.

A fool is he that comes to preach or prate, When men with swords their right and wrong debate.

It is the fortunate who should extol fortune.

Not for no cold did freeze, Nor any cloud beguile Th’eternal flowering spring

They make their fortune who are stout and wise, Wit rules the heavens, discretion guides the skies.

True love cannot be found where it does not exist, nor can it be denied where it does.

None merits the name of Creator but God and the poet.

O subtle love! a thousand wiles thou hast, by humble suit, by service, or by hire, to win a maiden’s hold,–a thing soon done, for nature framed all women to be won.

Then amongst flowers and springs, Making delightful sport, Sat lovers without conflict, without flame

He, full of bashfulness and truth, loved much, hoped little, and desired naught.

Virtue’s guard is labor; ease, her sleep.

The day of fortune is like a harvest day, We must be busy when the corn is ripe.

I know that I, personally, lost respect for writers who, when there was a downturn in the market, started shouting from the rooftops that they wrote thrillers and suspense novels rather than horror.

In Kerry, you’re said to be flamin’; in Waterford, you’re in the horrors; and in Cavan, you’ve gone baloobas, a tough one to wrap your tongue around if you ARE baloobas. In Donegal, you’re steamin’, while the afflicted in Limerick are out of their tree.

I write horror. And if no one wants to buy my books, I’ll just keep writing them until they do sell–and get a job at Taco Bell in the meantime.

I grew up on genre – on Westerns, spy thrillers, sci-fi, fantasy novels, horror novels. Especially horror novels.

As far as I’m concerned, those wussboys should sever all ties with the horror community if that’s the way they feel and get out of the way so real horror writers can do their work.

Hell, look at the Bible: gods, devils, ghosts, witches, giants, resurrections. That’s one big horror story. And it’s the most popular book on the planet.

There’s always been a need for horror fiction, though – ghost stories have been a staple of every human society since the beginning of recorded literature – and while commercially the field may have its ups and downs, it will never go away.

Tension, especially with regard to horror, is a very difficult thing to sustain in the big sense.