I am well-nigh resolv'd to write no more tales but merely to dream when I have a mind to, not stopping to do anything so vulgar as to set down the dream for a boarish Publick.
Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end.
Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness.
I do not think that any realism is beautiful.
All of my tales are based on the fundamental premise that common human laws and emotions have no validity or significance in the cosmos-at-large.
But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travellers notoriously false?