Stars On Our Door, Stars In Our

Among The Monsters, I Am Well Hidden; Who Looks For A Leaf In A Forest?

Nothing Is A Matter Of Life And Death Except Life And Death.

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.

A Mother Is Always A Mother, Since A Mother Is A Biological Fact, Whilst A Father Is A Movable Feast.

One Beast And Only One Howls In The Woods By Night.