Incurable Lover Of The Grotesque

The Trees Grew Too Thickly, And Their Trunks Were Too Big For Any Healthy New England Wood. There Was Too Much Silence In The Dim Alleys Between Them.

Good And Evil And Beauty And Ugliness Are Only Ornamental Fruits Of Perspective, Whose Sole Value Lies In Their Linkage To What Chance Made Our Fathers Think And Feel, And Whose Finer Details Are Different For Every Race And Culture.

Sometimes One Feels That It Would Be Merciful To Tear Down These Houses, For They Must Often Dream.

That's Because Only A Real Artist Knows The Actual Anatomy Of The Terrible Or The Physiology Of Fear - The Exact Sort Of Lines And Proportions That Connect Up With Latent Instincts Or Hereditary Memories Of Fright, And The Proper Colour Contrasts And Lighting Effects To Stir The Dormant Sense Of Strangeness.

The Glorious Dryden, Refiner And Purifier Of English Verse, Did Less For Rhyme Than He Did For Metre.