To some degree Satanism is purely a kind of disease of Christianity. You've got to really be Christian to believe in Satan.

You see, Doctor, God didn't kill that little girl. Fate didn't butcher her and destiny didn't feed her to those dogs. If God saw what any of us did that night he didn't seem to mind. From then on I knew... God doesn't make the world this way. We do.

Soon there will be war. Millions will burn. Millions will perish in sickness and misery. Why does one death matter against so many? Because there is good and there is evil, and evil must be punished. Even in the face of Armageddon I shall not compromise in this. But there are so many deserving of retribution ... and there is so little time.

If you're going to have any kind of political opposition in the 21st century, then it has to be as fundamentally liquid as the rapidly changing society we're living in.

You're my only remaining link to the world.

It's not the job of the artist to give the audience what the audience wants. If the audience knew what they needed, then they wouldn't be the audience. They would be the artists. It is the job of artists to give the audience what they need.

No, the Indian mutineers may have surrendered, but I did not. If I work with the British, it is because I no longer feel even Indian. The sea, now, is my only nation.

I am going to look at the stars. They are so far away, and their light takes so long to reach us. All we ever see of stars are their old photographs.

Most of the people who get sent to die in wars are young men who've got a lot of energy and would probably rather, in a better world, be putting that energy into copulation rather than going over there and blowing some other young man's guts out.

In comics the reader is in complete control of the experience. They can read it at their own pace, and if there's a piece of dialogue that seems to echo something a few pages back, they can flip back and check it out, whereas the audience for a film is being dragged through the experience at the speed of 24 frames per second.

Listening to her spooling out impractical and transcendental picture-concepts like a hyperventilating tickertape he felt the weight lift from him, floating in a sweet and putrid lager fart to dissipate beneath the starry, vast obsidian pudding bowl of closing time, inverted and set down upon the Burroughs as though keeping flies away.

Artists use lies to tell the truth. Yes, I created a lie. But because you believed it, you found something true about yourself.

Once a man has seen society's black underbelly, he can never turn his back on it. Never pretend, like you do, that it doesn't exist.

For to be human is not enough...when gods cry war amidst the thunder.

I find that if I'm watching somebody upon television or in a movie that is on a window ledge or in some high precarious position my hand starts sweating and I get that crawling feeling in the soles of my feet.

It is the oldest ironies that are still the most satisfying: man, when preparing for bloody war, will orate loudly and most eloquently in the name of peace.

As with most of the future worlds in the science fiction, you are not talking about the future. You are talking about the present. You are using the future as a way of giving a bit of room to move.

Life is a lot more interesting if you are interested in the people and the places around you. So, illuminate your little patch of ground, the people that you know, the things that you want to commemorate. Light them up with your art, with your music, with your writing, with whatever it is that you do.

The things we do without the fear of failure and the desire for success are the purest acts we'll ever do.

There is no coincidence. Only the illusion of coincidence.

Growing up in the Boroughs, I thought I must be the cleverest boy in the world, an illusion that I was able to maintain until I got to the grammar school.

It smelled big, smelled like morning in a church hall where a jumble sale was going on, the air a weak infusion in which stale, damp coats steeped with the crumbling fresh pinkness of homemade coconut ice, the sneeze-provoking pages of old children's annuals and the sour metal lick of cast-off Dinky cars.

There is no future. There is no past. Do you see? Time is simultaneous, an intricately structured jewel that humans insist on viewing one edge at a time, when the whole design is visible in every facet.

If you look at that incredible burst of fantastic characters that emerged in the late 19th century/early 20th century, you can see so many of the fears and hopes of those times embedded in those characters. Even in throwaway bits of contemporary culture you can often find some penetrating insights into the real world around us.

Without my face, nobody knows. Nobody knows who I am.

There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to kill. There's only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof.

My dear, beautiful and imaginative things can be destroyed. Beauty and imagination cannot.

I am brother to dragons, and companion to owls. My skin is black upon me, and my bones are burned with heat.

My experience of life is that it is not divided up into genres; it's a horrifying, romantic, tragic, comical, science-fiction cowboy detective novel. You know, with a bit of pornography if you're lucky.

People's lives take them strange places. They do strange things, and... well, sometimes they can't talk about them.

If the audience knew what they wanted then they wouldn't be the audience, they would be the artist.

Uglier than death backin' outta the outhouse readin' mad magazine and crazy as a football bat.

Remember, remember the fifth of November of gunpowder treason and plot. I know of no reason why the gun powder treason should ever be forgot.

I leave the human cockroaches to discuss their heroin and child pornography.

Famously, there's not really anywhere to go after nihilism. It's not progressing toward anything, it's a statement of outrage, however brilliant.

Blake understood. Treated it like a joke, but he understood. He saw the cracks in society, saw the little men in masks trying to hold it together...he saw the true face of the twentieth century and chose to become a reflection of it, a parody of it. No one else saw the joke. That's why he was lonely.

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose.

Beneath me, this awful city, it screams like an abattoir full of retarded children. New York.

Things have their forms not only in space, but also in time.

Things have their shape in time, not space alone. Some marble blocks have statues within them, embedded in their future.

Affected most, they understand the least...

Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation. I'm merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.

It doesn't matter how successful each of us is in life. We're all doomed to die. Why can't anyone else see that?

I'm dependent on writing for a living, so really it's to my advantage to understand how the creative process works. One of the problems is, when you start to do that, in effect you're going to have to step off the edge of science and rationality.

Who watches the watchmen?

Art makes us feel less alone. It makes us think: somebody else has thought this, somebody else has had these feelings.

They made you into a victim, Evey. They made you into a statistic. But that's not the real you. That's not who you are inside.

I increasingly fear that nothing good can come of almost any adaptation, and obviously that's sweeping. There are a couple of adaptations that are perhaps as good or better than the original work. But the vast majority of them are pointless.

Please! Don't all leave. Somebody has to do it, don't you see? Somebody has to save the world...