I Have A Deadline. I'm Glad. I

His Dreams Had Always Been Houdiniesque: They Were The Dreams Of A Pupa Struggling In Its Blind Cocoon, Mad For A Taste Of Light And Air.

Every Generation Loses The Messiah It Has Failed To Deserve.

Horror Grows Impatient, Rhetorically, With The Stoic Fatalism Of Ecclesiastes. That We Are All Going To Die, That Death Mocks And Cancels Every One Of Our Acts And Attainments And Every Moment Of Our Life Histories, This Knowledge Is To Storytelling What Rust Is To Oxidation; The Writer Of Horror Holds With Those Who Favor Fire. The Horror Writer Is Not Content To Report On Death As The Universal System Of Human Weather; He Or She Chases Tornadoes. Horror Is Stoicism With A Taste For Spectacle.

Along The Way, He Or She Discovers That The World Has Been Broken For As Long As Anyone Can Remember. Everyone, Sooner Or Later, Gets A Thorough Schooling In Brokenness. The Question Becomes What To Do With The Pieces?

[comics] Were Viewed As The Literary Equivalent Of Bubblegum Cards, Meant To Be Poked Into The Spokes Of A Young Mind Where They Would Produce A Satisfying But Entirely Bogus Rumble Of Pleasure.