Pornography Is A Satire On Human Pretensions.

His Wedding Gift, Clasped Round My Throat. A Choker Of Rubies, Two Inches Wide, Like An Extraordinarily Precious Slit Throat.

Not For Moorcock The Painful, Infrequent Excretion Of Dry Little Novels Like So Many Rabbit Pellets; His Is The Grand, Messy Fluxitself, In All Its Heroic Vulgarity, Its Unquenchable Optimism, Its Enthusiasm For The Inexhaustible Variousness Of Things.

There Are Lots Of Things That You Can Brush Under The Carpet About Yourself Until You're Faced With Somebody Whose Needs Won't Be Put Off.

I Am Entirely Alone. I And My Shadow Fill The Universe.

The End Of All Stories, Even If The Writer Forebears To Mention It, Is Death, Which Is Where Time Stops Short. Sheherezade Knew This, Which Is Why She Kept On Spinning Another Story Out Of The Bowels Of The Last One, Never Coming To A Point Where She Could Say: "this Is The End." Because It Would Have Been.