For so long as man progresses, the area of the unknown will continue to grow, both inside and outside the mind, and wherever the unknown is, there will be monsters.

We’ve glory here to show you, and tales of lost treasure, princes in armor, jaws in the lurking dark, and mysteries of missing kings. Dragons dancing in the sky, and wizards blasting the towers of castles into thunderous falling ruin . . . tales of love and betrayal, gallant heroics and sly intrigues.

Every writer worth his two-cents-a-word hopes, in some little corner of his mind at least, somewhere out there, there are a few people who will do more than read his book, pitch it away, and reach for the next one – people who read and reread, study the cover, perhaps, in search of some clue, shelve the book and later take it out again, just to hold.

What exists is real; therefore it is tragic, since whatever lives must die. Only fantasy, the vapors rising from sheer nonsense, can now excite my laughter.

All human thought, all science, all religion, is the holding of a candle to the night of the universe.

Fantasy, is I think, not lower but a higher form of Art, indeed the most nearly pure form, and so (when achieved) most potent.

History has remembered the kings and warriors, because they destroyed; art has remembered the people, because they created.

Poets always hate those in power, and turn to dead ages for relief in dreams.

Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago? Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa? Hwær cwom symbla gesetu? Hwær sindon seledreamas? Eala beorht bune! Eala byrnwiga! Eala þeodnes þrym! Hu seo þrag gewat, genap under nihthelm, swa heo no wære.