My Imagination Is My Polestar; I Steer

She Had Opened A Door... And Now She Was Walking With Demons. And At The End Of Her Travels, She Would Have Her Revenge... Pain Had Made A Sadist Of Her.

Any Fool Can Be Happy. It Takes A Man With Real Heart To Make Beauty Out Of The Stuff That Makes Us Weep.

Life Is Short And Pleasures Few And Holed The Ship And Drowned The Crew But O! But O! How Very Blue The Sea Is.

Nothing Ever Begins. There Is No First Moment; No Single Word Or Place From Which This Or Any Story Springs. The Threads Can Always Be Traced Back To Some Earlier Tale, And The Tales That Preceded That; Though As The Narrator's Voice Recedes The Connections Will Seem To Grow More Tenuous, For Each Age Will Want The Tale Told As If It Were Of Its Own Making.

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.