Caitlín R. Kiernan Quotes

"I don't judge a scene or a line of dialog by whether or not it advances the plot, for example. Imagine an edit of Tarantino's Pulp Fiction wherein only dialog that advances the plot was allowed to remain. I don't obsess over the balance of conflict and interaction. I don't generally fret over the possibility that something I do may cause some reader to experience a "disconnect" (what an odious metaphor). I don't think in dramatic arcs. I don't spend a lot of time wondering if the plot is getting lost in description and conversation. To me, this all seems like a wealth of tedious confusion being introduced into an act that ought to be instinctive, natural, intuitive. I want to say, stop thinking about all that stuff and just write the story you have to tell. Let the story show you how it needs you to write it. I don't try to imagine how the reader will react to X or if maybe A, B, and C should have happened by page R. It's not that I don't want the story to be read. I desire readers as much as anyone. But I desire readers who want to read what I'm writing, not readers who approach fiction with so many expectations that they're constantly second-guessing and critiquing the author's every move, book in one hand, some workshop checklist in the other, and a stopwatch on the desk before them. If writing or reading like this seems to work for you, fine. I mean, I've always said that when you find something that works, stick with it. But, for me, it seems as though such an anal approach to creating any art would bleed from it any spark of enjoyment on the part of the artist (not to mention the audience). It also feels like an attempt to side-step the nasty issue of talent, as if we can all write equally well if we only follow the rules, because, you know, good writing is really 99% craft, not inexplicable, inconvenient, unquantifiable talent."

The best foreshadowing never -seems- like foreshadowing.

That’s another sort of being haunted: starting something and never finishing it.

All things are alone in time.

What the fuck do you say about a place whose sole claim to fame is a mention in an Eagles song?

How the brilliant are often blind.

That’s another thing about ghosts, a very important thing — you have to be careful, because hauntings are contagious. Hauntings are memes, especially pernicious thought contagions, social contagions that need no viral or bacterial host and are transmitted in a thousand different ways. A book, a poem, a song, a bedtime story, a grandmother’s suicide, the choreography of a dance, a few frames of film, a diagnosis of schizophrenia, a deadly tumble from a horse, a faded photograph, or a story you tell your daughter. Or a painting hanging on a wall.

He caught a lucky break, got a tip from a CI, a schizophrenic who’s spent the last two decades creating a concordance for the Weekly World News, “the World’s Only Reliable News,” painstakingly cataloging and correlating everything from Jersey Devil sightings to Bat Boy, from Israeli mermaids to the discovery of an alien spacecraft at the bottom of the Baltic Sea.

KKK neo-Nazi skinhead motherfucker from an Idaho militia detonating a dozen barrels of ammonium nitrate, Tovex Blastrite gel, and nitromethane

appear in such canonical works of pulp fiction as Lovecraft’s “The Dunwich Horror” (1929) and Karl Edward Wagner’s “Sticks” (1974).

The X would build an entire equation around the consequences of her having tossed a punt into the river.

El mundo está lleno de sirenas. Siempre hay una sirena cantándote para hacerte naufragar. Algunos de nosotros tal vez seamos más susceptibles que otros, pero siempre hay una sirena. Puede estar con nosotros toda nuestra vida, o pueden pasar muchos años, décadas, antes de encontrarla o de que nos encuentre. Pero cuando nos encuentra, si no tenemos la suerte de ser Odiseo escuchando la canción con perfecta nitidez atado al mástil del barco, tripulado sin riesgos por marineros con los oídos taponados con cera de abeja… si no tenemos esa suerte, somos otra clase de marino, de la clase que salta por la borda y se ahoga en el mar.

He’s drifting off, and the movie is beginning to blur together with half-formed dreams. Tomorrow, he’ll have trouble remembering which bits of the story were actually part of the movie and which bits he made up in his sleep.

I’m stacking days, building a house of cards made from nothing but days. Monday is the Ace of Hearts. Saturday is the Four of Spades. Wednesday is the Seven of Clubs. Thursday night is, I suspect, the Seven of Diamonds, and it might be heavy enough to bring the whole precarious thing tumbling down around my ears. I would spend an entire hour watching cards fall, because time would stretch, the same way it stretches out to fill in awkward pauses, the way it stretched thin in that thundering moment of a car crash. Or at the edges of a wound.

Dancy closes her eyes, remembering all the times that have been so much worse than this, all the horror and shame and sorrow to give her strength. The burning parts of her no one and nothing can ever touch, the fire where her soul used to be.