Blue, Green, Grey, White, Or Black; Smooth,

The Sea Can Bind Us To Her Many Moods, Whispering To Us By The Subtle Token Of A Shadow Or A Gleam Upon The Waves, And Hinting In These Ways Of Her Mournfulness Or Rejoicing. Always She Is Remembering Old Things, And These Memories, Though We May Not Grasp Them, Are Imparted To Us, So That We Share Her Gaiety Or Remorse.

The Basis Of All True Cosmic Horror Is Violation Of The Order Of Nature, And The Profoundest Violations Are Always The Least Concrete And Describable.

While My Chosen Form Of Story-writing Is Obviously A Special And Perhaps A Narrow One, It Is None The Less A Persistent And Permanent Type Of Expression, As Old As Literature Itself. There Will Always Be A Certain Small Percentage Of Persons Who Feel A Burning Curiosity About Unknown Outer Space, And A Burning Desire To Escape From The Prison-house Of The Known And The Real Into Those Enchanted Lands Of Incredible Adventure And Infinite Possibilities Which Dreams Open Up To Us, And Which Things Like Deep Woods, Fantastic Urban Towers, And Flaming Sunsets Momentarily Suggest.

West Of Arkham The Hills Rise Wild, And There Are Valleys With Deep Woods That No Axe Has Ever Cut.

The Most Merciful Thing In The World... Is The Inability Of The Human Mind To Correlate All Its Contents.