In London There Is A Man Who

I Am So Beastly Tired Of Mankind And The World That Nothing Can Interest Me Unless It Contains A Couple Of Murders On Each Page Or Deals With The Horrors Unnameable And Unaccountable That Leer Down From The External Universes.

One Can't Write A Weird Story Of Real Power Without Perfect Psychological Detachment From The Human Scene, And A Magic Prism Of Imagination Which Suffuses Them And Style Alike With That Grotesquerie And Disquieting Distortion Characteristic Of Morbid Vision. Only A Cynic Can Create Horror - For Behind Every Masterpiece Of The Sort Must Reside A Driving Daemonic Force That Despises The Human Race And Its Illusions, And Longs To Pull Them To Pieces And Mock Them.

Religion Itself Is An Absurdity And An Anomaly, And Paganism Is Acceptable Only Because It Represents That Purely Orgiastic Phase Of Religion Farthest From Reality.

Life Is A Hideous Thing, And From The Background Behind What We Know Of It Peer Daemoniacal Hints Of Truth Which Make It Sometimes A Thousandfold More Hideous.

In Search Of Truth The Hopeful Zealot Goes,but All The Sadder Tums, The More He Knows!