That Which Is Imagined Can Never Be

Your Flesh Is Killing Your Spirit. You Have Forsaken Yourself.

Give Me B Movies Or Give Me Death!

You Cut Up A Thing That's Alive And Beautiful To Find Out How It's Alive And Why It's Beautiful, And Before You Know It, It's Neither Of Those Things, And You're Standing There With Blood On Your Face And Tears In Your Sight And Only The Terrible Ache Of Guilt To Show For It.

Richard Christian Matheson Is A Master Of Compression. He Knows How To Catch A Moment In Words And Convey It Straight To The Reader's Heart.

Nothing Ever Begins. There Is No First Moment; No Single Word Or Place From Which This Or Any Story Springs. The Threads Can Always Be Traced Back To Some Earlier Tale, And The Tales That Preceded That; Though As The Narrator's Voice Recedes The Connections Will Seem To Grow More Tenuous, For Each Age Will Want The Tale Told As If It Were Of Its Own Making.