One Beast And Only One Howls In

So I Suppose I Do Not Know How He Really Looked, And, In Fact, I Suppose I Shall Never Know, Now, For He Was Plainly An Object Created In The Mode Of Fantasy. His Image Was Already Present Somewhere In My Head And I Was Seeking To Discover It In Actuality, Looking At Every Face I Met In Case It Was The Right Face - That Is, The Face Which Corresponded To My Notion Of The Unseen Face Of The One I Should Love, A Face Created Parthenogeneticallyby The Rage To Love Which Consumed Me.

A Young Girl Would Go Into The Wood As Trustingly As Red Riding Hood To Her Granny's House But This Light Admits No Ambiguities And, Here, She Will Be Trapped In Her Own Illusion Because Everything In The Woods Is Exactly As It Seems.

A Book Is Simply The Container Of An Idea-like A Bottle; What Is Inside The Book Is What Matters.

Not For Moorcock The Painful, Infrequent Excretion Of Dry Little Novels Like So Many Rabbit Pellets; His Is The Grand, Messy Fluxitself, In All Its Heroic Vulgarity, Its Unquenchable Optimism, Its Enthusiasm For The Inexhaustible Variousness Of Things.

[t]ea, That Uniquely English Meal, That Unnecessary Collation At Which No Stimulants--neither Alcohol Nor Meat--are Served, That Comforting Repast Of Which To Partake Is As Good As Second Childhood.