Zombies Are The Liberal Nightmare. Here You

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

Books Should Make Somebody Look At How They Feel, Be Honest With Themselves.

Behind Their Eyes The Hope Was Sickening And In Many, Dead. They Lived From Event To Event With A Subtle Terror Of The Gap Between, Filling Up Their Lives With Distractions To Avoid The Emptiness Where Curiosity Should Have Been.

Funny That. We Live In Islands Of Hours And We Never Seem To Have Time Enough For Anything.

There Are Things That Are More Important Than The News And What’s Happening Today. There Are These Archetypes Which Are Part Of The Human Imagination Since Humans Were Presumably Imaginative. And I Think That’s What [people] Find Touching, These Eternal Ideas. It’s One Of The Things That Makes Fantasy Something That Tends To Stand The Test Of Time Because We’re Reading, 50 Years Later, The Lord Of The Rings.