I write horror because I enjoy it. I'm endlessly fascinated by the supernatural, by death, by darkness. And, to be honest, I don't have much choice. This is the way my mind works.

Real life ... it was an ambiguous world, where actions sometimes had no meaning, where chaos reigned and no one was allowed to see the big picture, only their small portion of it.

Life is short. Eternity is long.

There were shadows galore in the dim light, but there was one shadow that did not correspond to any object in the room. It lurked next to the fireplace, a formless, undulating darkness.

Murder is an inherently evil act, no matter what the circumstances, no matter how convincing the rationalizations.

Hope was a dangerous emotion that more often than not led men into foolishness and peril, made them risk their lives and lose their wives and part with fortunes that they never recovered.

Names have power. In certain cultures, just speaking a man's name gives you mastery over him.

I always thought the appeal for vampires are the same as religion, the desire to avoid death and live forever.

Horror writers can write about everything in the real world that a mainstream novelist can--plus the supernatural, which is the most fertile field for metaphor imaginable.

In real life, good people die all the time and a**holes can live long and happy lives. It's a crapshoot.

Real life was messier than fiction, and in it you didn't always have time to do or say the right things.

Nothing is too wonderful to be true, if it be consistent with the laws of nature.

A great advantage I had when I started The Body Shop was that I had never been to business school.

I am a horrible visual artist. I can't fix a car, sew, knit, cook, etc. Statistically, there is more I don't do than do.

The ancient feud between cat and dog is not forgotten in the north, for the Lynx is the deadly foe of the Fox and habitually kills it when there is soft snow and scarcity of easier prey.

Yes, hell exists. It is not a fairy tale. One indeed burns there. This hell is not at the end of life. It is here. At the beginning. Hell is what the infant must experience before he gets to us.

I overcame myself, the sufferer; I carried my own ashes to the mountains; I invented a brighter flame for myself.

In no way be bullied into silence. Hardly ever permit on your own to become made a sufferer. Acknowledge no one's definition of one's lifetime; define oneself

Methinks my own soul must be a bright invisible green.

Gov. Scott Walker, a Tea Party-tinged Republican, is the advance guard of a new GOP push to dismantle public-sector unions as an electoral force.

The women in the room chatted about love, about childhood, about losing parents, about Mr. Spock, about good books they'd read. They mothered each other.