Non-Euclidean calculus and quantum physics are enough to stretch any brain; and when one mixes them with folklore, and tries to trace a strange background of multi-dimensional reality behind the ghoulish hints of the Gothic tales and the wild whispers of the chimney-corner, one can hardly expect to be wholly free from mental tension.
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.
My story is endless. I put in a teletype roll, you know, you know what they are, you have them in newspapers, and run it through there and fix the margins and just go, go – just go, go, go.
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 you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.
I want to be able to tell my story the way that I want to tell it.
I really just want to tell great stories, and one of my truest beliefs that I hold onto very tight is that true representation comes when we simply get to exist in the world without having to necessarily acknowledge our heritage in the context of a story.
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 can only say that if my stories are fierce, then life is fierce. I think life is strong, not fierce, and I try to make my stories as strong as life is strong.
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.
But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travellers notoriously false?