Nothing is fixed. In and out the shuttle goes, fact and fiction, mind and matter, woven into patterns that may have only this in common: that hidden amongst them is a filigree which will with time become a world.

I have the normal complement of anxieties, neuroses, psychoses and whatever else - but I'm absolutely nothing special.

Nothing ever begins. There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs.

I have the normal complement of anxieties, neuroses, psychoses and whatever else - but I'm absolutely nothing special.

Horror fiction shows us that the control we believe we have is purely illusory, and that every moment we teeter on chaos and oblivion.

One of the things I'm trying to do over and over again in my books is create new mythologies, create new ways to understand the complexity of the world. I think what mythology does is impress upon chaotic experience the patterns, hierarchies and shapes which allow us to interpret the chaos and make fresh sense of it.