No one ever wrote a story yet without some real emotional drive behind it—and I have not that drive except where violations of the natural order … defiances and evasions of time, space, and cosmic law … are concerned.
No need of a story, a story is not compulsory, just a life, that’s the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.
In writing a weird story I always try very carefully to achieve the right mood and atmosphere, and place the emphasis where it belongs.
If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced that there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes but by no means always find the way to do it.
I have no illusions concerning the precarious status of my tales, and do not expect to become a serious competitor of my favourite weird authors.
I am well-nigh resolv’d to write no more tales but merely to dream when I have a mind to, not stopping to do anything so vulgar as to set down the dream for a boarish Publick.
As I see it, the purpose of story telling is to express the beauty of life, condensing its high spots, for purposes of entertainment. For after all, it is only beauty we seek in life, whether it be through laughter or tears. And beauty lies in everything, both good and evil, though only the discriminating, such as the artist and the poet, finds it in both.
Anger and depression and sorrow are beautiful things in a story, but they are like poison to the filmmaker or artist.
All my tales are based on the fundamental premise that common human laws and interests and emotions have no validity or significance in the vast cosmos-at-large.