Books, Cats, Life is Good.
There are so many things we've been brought up to believe that it takes you an awfully long time to realize that they aren't you.
It's well we cannot hear the screams we make in other people's dreams.
My favorite journey is looking out the window.
My mission in life is to make everybody as uneasy as possible. I think we should all be as uneasy as possible, because that's what the world is like.
If something doesn't creep into a drawing that you're not prepared for, you might as well not have drawn it.
The helpful thought for which you look Is written somewhere in a book.
Some tiny creature, mad with wrath, is coming nearer on the path.
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.
God knows, there's enough to worry about without worrying about worrying about things.
When people are finding meaning in things -- beware.
All the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.... You can describe all the externals of a performance - everything, in fact, but what really constitutes its core. Explaining something makes it go away, so to speak; what's important is what's left over after you've explained everything else.
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.
What is, is, and what might have been could never have existed.
Interviewer: What is your greatest regret? Gorey: That I don't have one
Neither mine nor other people's prospects seem particularly pleasing just at the moment, and I have fantasies of going to Iceland, never to return. As it is, I tell myself not to remember the past, not to hope or fear for the future, and not to think in the present, a comprehensive program that will undoubtedly have very little success.
More is happening out there than we are aware of. It is possibly due to some unknown direful circumstance.
I have given up considering happiness as relevant.
A small and sinister snow seems to be coming down relentlessly at present. The radio says it is eventually going to be sleet and rain, but I don't think so; I think it is just going to go on and on, coming down, until the whole world...etc. It has that look.
Only art means anything.
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 tend to be rather inconsequential and trail off.
Ideally, if anything [was] any good, it would be indescribable.
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.
I should like a parsley sandwich. To the best of my knowledge they are not in season.
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