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.

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 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

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

He loved her, he loved her, and until he'd loved her she had never minded being alone....

There are people who've prepared their whole lives for real heavy success and bask in it. They're so good at it and they obviously love it. I'm just happy to be making a record.

How you behave in one place, will help in surprising ways later.

Being is central, and Being is now. The fulfillment of your life is not going to happen through anything. The outer activities in your life are secondary. What is Primary is Being.

Scarlatti [Kirkpatrick] started writing sonatas when he was 66 and the idea that he ran off 500 or so after he was 66 was just too much for me to resist. It's just great.

I have never seen such a perfectly formed animal. Beautiful and graceful like a gazelle, he burned hot and wild with the deserts of Egypt in his soul.

Every missionary I know is extraordinarily ordinary. Everything they do, they do by the grace of God.

I was just thinking – today is the first and last day of forever. It’s kind of hard to wrap my head around it. Even with all this extra room for wrapping.

The only friends I have are the dead who have bequeathed their writings to me — I have no others.

Oh! don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown?