When Randolph Carter Was Thirty He Lost

I Could Not Write About "ordinary People" Because I Am Not In The Least Interested In Them.

Most Of My Monsters Fail Altogether To Satisfy My Sense Of The Cosmic - The Abnormally Chromatic Entity In The Colour Out Of Space Being The Only One Of The Lot Which I Take Any Pride In.

Religion As A Vital Issue Is Dead Except On Paper, And Whatever Beauty-baiting The Future May Witness Will Be The Work Of Greed And Trade, And Not Of Honest Cosmos-facing.

We Shall See That At Which Dogs Howl In The Dark, And That At Which Cats Prick Up Their Ears After Midnight.

Who Knows The End? What Has Risen May Sink, And What Has Sunk May Rise.