And I Guess You Judge How Well

His Mother Called Such People Ignorant And Superstitious, But His Father Only Shook His Head Slowly And Puffed His Pipe And Said That Sometimes Old Stories Had A Grain Or Two Of Truth In Them And It Was Best Not To Take Chances. It Was Why, He Said, He Crossed Himself Whenever A Black Cat Crossed His Path.

By Writing A Horror Novel Where This Inexplicable Disorder Takes Over In Our Ordered Lives, You Make Order Look Better By Comparison. But Below That, There's A Part Of Us That Responds To The Who Bashing Their Instruments To Pieces On The Stage. There's A Very Primitive Part That Says, "do It Some More."

It Means That No Blue Ribbon Is Forever. Someday - If The World Doesn't Explode Itself In The Meantime - Someone Will Run A Two-minute Mile In The Olympics. It May Take A Hundred Years Or A Thousand, But It Will Happen. Because There Is No Ultimate Blue Ribbon. There Is Zero, And There Is Eternity, And There Is Mortality, But There Is No Ultimate.

Absence May Or May Not Make The Heart Grow Fonder, But It Certainly Freshens The Eye.

I Think It Is Beyond Doubt That H. P. Lovecraft Has Yet To Be Surpassed As The Twentieth Century's Greatest Practitioner Of The Classic Horror Tale.