All of my tales are based on the fundamental premise that common human laws and emotions have no validity or significance in the cosmos-at-large.
Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end.
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.
Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness.
I do not think that any realism is beautiful.
But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travellers notoriously false?
