I'll never get sick of zombies. I just get sick of producers.

I'm like my zombies. I won't stay dead!

If I fail, the film industry writes me off as another statistic. If I succeed, they pay me a million bucks to fly out to Hollywood and fart.

I also have always liked the monster within idea. I like the zombies being us. Zombies are the blue-collar monsters.

When there's no more room in Hell, the dead will walk the Earth.

I always thought of the zombies as being about revolution, one generation consuming the next.

I've always felt that the real horror is next door to us, that the scariest monsters are our neighbors.

A zombie film is not fun without a bunch of stupid people running around and observing how they fail to handle the situation.

My stuff is my stuff. I do it for my own reasons, using my own peculiar set of guidelines. I'm not a student of the genre. I don't care what anybody else does.

My zombies will never take over the world because I need the humans. The humans are the ones I dislike the most, and they're where the trouble really lies.

Zombies are the blue-collar monsters

But there was no going back to that idyllic time when only one god wanted to kill me.

Every fact is a myth until proven to be otherwise.

There is no planning. On the night it is really great, it's euphoria and if it is not so great there is always tomorrow night. That was his attitude.

In fact, the likeliest reason why so many of us care so little about politics is that modern politicians makes us sad, hurt us deep down in ways that are hard even to name, much less talk about.

We must admit that the divine banquet of the brain was, and still is, a feast with dishes that remain elusive in the blending, and with sauces whose ingredients are even now a secret.

If [my son] had any pain in feeling that he couldn't express to me, that would hurt.

During the winter, you head out into the darkness for a run. When spring comes, and the first crocus pokes up its head...you know it was worthwhile.

The eye is the casement at which the heart generally looks out. Many a woman who will not show herself at the door, has tipt the sly, the intelligible wink from the window.

Love doesn't need a reason. Hate needs a reason.

I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.