EDWARD GOREY

Life is intrinsically, well, boring and dangerous at the same time. At any given moment the floor may open up. Of course, it almost never does; that's what makes it so boring.

I just kind of conjured them up out of my subconscious and put them in order of ascending peculiarity.

To take my work seriously would be the height of folly.

I realize that homosexuality is a serious problem for anyone who is - but then, of course, heterosexuality is a serious problem for anyone who is, too. And being a man is a serious problem and being a woman is, too. Lots of things are problems.

Explaining something makes it go away, so to speak; what's important is left after you have explained everything else.

The helpful thought for which you look Is written somewhere in a book.

I've never had any intentions about anything. That's why I am where I am today, which is neither here nor there, in a literal sense.

Not everything in life can be interpreted metaphorically; that's because things fall out on the way.

What is, is, and what might have been could never have existed.

Ideally, if anything [was] any good, it would be indescribable.

I am a person before I am anything else. I never say I am a writer. I never say I am an artist...I am a person who does those things.

This is the theory… that anything that is art… is presumably about some certain thing, but is really always about something else, and it’s no good having one without the other, because if you just have the something it is boring and if you just have the something else it’s irritating.

If I do not seem to be mentioning anything I’ve read lately, it is because I am in one of those periods of undifferentiated flux or something in which I am reading about fifty, at a minimum, books at once, so of course I seldom finish one. Eventually this phase will pass, and I’ll discover I have about ten pages to go in all of them, and will sit down and systematically finish them, one after another.

I tend to be rather inconsequential and trail off.

I don't think anything might have been. What is, is.

I have given up considering happiness as relevant.

If you're doing nonsense it has to be rather awful, because there'd be no point. I'm trying to think if there's sunny nonsense. Sunny, funny nonsense for children — oh, how boring, boring, boring. As Schubert said, there is no happy music. And that's true, there really isn't. And there's probably no happy nonsense, either.

I should like a parsley sandwich. To the best of my knowledge they are not in season.

I really think I write about everyday life. I don't think I'm quite as odd as others say I am. Life is intrinsically, well, boring and dangerous at the same time. At any given moment the floor may open up. Of course, it almost never does; that's what makes it so boring.

Having got into bed and turned out the light, I quietly burst into tears because I am not a good person. As they came and went for some minutes, I was concerned with the words following 'because' in the previous sentence, rewriting them over and over in my head until they seemed to be as close to the truth as it was possible for me to make them.

The world may think it idiotic, Nor care at all we're symbiotic, But I will say at once and twice: I find it nice. I find it nice.

God knows, there's enough to worry about without worrying about worrying about things.

When people are finding meaning in things -- beware.

Some tiny creature, mad with wrath, is coming nearer on the path.

Only art means anything.