The Great Grey Beast February

I Want To Be Remembered As An Imaginer, Someone Who Used His Imagination As A Way To Journey Beyond The Limits Of Self, Beyond The Limits Of Flesh And Blood, Beyond The Limits Of Even Perhaps Life Itself, In Order To Discover Some Sense Of Order In What Appears To Be A Disordered Universe. I'm Using My Imagination To Find Meaning, Both For Myself And, I Hope, For My Readers."-clive Barker

Anyway, It's Gone. And There's Nothing Left In My Pocket To Charm You. So From Now On It's Going To Have To Be Tears Or Nothing I'm Afraid. That's All I've Got Left To Tell You See: Tears, Tears, Tears.

The Whole Point About Vision Is That It's Very Individual, It's Very Personal, And It Has To Be Confessional. It Has To Be Something Which Hurts - The Pulling Out Of It And Putting It On The Page Hurts. Art Can Be About The Individual Writer's Response To His Or Her Condition, And If That Response Comes Out Of A Predigested Belief About What The Audience Wants To Hear About The Writer's Condition, Then It Has No Truth, It Has No Validity. You Either Write With Your Own Blood Or Nobody's. Otherwise It's Just Ink.

I've Dealt With A Lot Of Producers Who Were Pricks And I'm Determined Not To Be That.

Harvey Wasn't Interested In The Clothes, It Was The Masks That Mesmerized Him. They Were Like Snowflakes: No Two Alike. Some Were Made Of Wood And Of Plastic; Some Of Straw And Cloth And Papier-mâché. Some Were As Bright As Parrots, Others As Pale As Parchment. Some Were So Grotesque He Was Certain They'd Been Carved By Crazy People; Others So Perfect They Looked Like The Death Masks Of Angels. There Were Masks Of Clowns And Foxes, Masks Like Skulls Decorated With Real Teeth, And One With Carved Flames Instead Of Hair.