Imagination Is A Form Of Seeing

We Are All Subject To The Fates. But We Must All Act As If We Are Not, Or Die Of Despair...death Will Sweep Through All The Worlds; It Will Be The Triumph Of Despair, Forever. The Universes Will All Become Nothing More Than Interlocking Machines, Blind And Empty Of Thought, Feeling, Life...

All Things From The North Are Devilish.

The State Of Mind Which I Put Myself When I Tell A Story Is One In Which Superstition Flourishes Very Easily. And I Welcome That Because It Helps Me.

What Is Worth Having Is Worth Working For.

On A Cold, Fretful Afternoon In Early October, 1872, A Hansom Cab Drew Up Outside The Offices Of Lockhart And Selby, Shipping Agents, In The Financial Heart Of London, And A Young Girl Got Out And Paid The Driver. She Was A Person Of Sixteen Or So--alone, And Uncommonly Pretty. She Was Slender And Pale, And Dressed In Mourning, With A Black Bonnet Under Which She Tucked Back A Straying Twist Of Blond Hair That The Wind Had Teased Loose. She Had Unusually Dark Brown Eyes For One So Fair. Her Name Was Sally Lockhart; And Within Fifteen Minutes, She Was Going To Kill A Man.