Jason Brock > Jason's Quotes

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  • #1
    Alan Moore
    “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.”
    Alan Moore


  • #2
    Ray Bradbury
    “I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.”
    Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing


  • #3
    George Lucas
    “No! Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try.”
    George Lucas, Star Wars Trilogy


  • #4
    Ray Bradbury
    “If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.”
    Ray Bradbury


  • #5
    Harlan Ellison
    “You are not entitled to your opinion. You are entitled to your informed opinion. No one is entitled to be ignorant.”
    Harlan Ellison


  • #6
    Jason V. Brock
    “Big Daddy, Junior, and the Spook.”
    Jason V. Brock


  • #7
    Edith Wharton
    “Life is always either a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope.”
    Edith Wharton


  • #8
    Khalil Gibran
    “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
    Khalil Gibran


  • #9
    Rumi
    “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”
    Rumi


  • #10
    Mahatma Gandhi
    “Let the first act of every morning be to make the following resolve for the day:

    - I shall not fear anyone on Earth.
    - I shall fear only God.
    - I shall not bear ill will toward anyone.
    - I shall not submit to injustice from anyone.
    - I shall conquer untruth by truth. And in resisting untruth, I shall put up with all suffering.”
    Mahatma Gandhi


  • #11
    Thích Nhất Hạnh
    “If you suffer and make your loved ones suffer, there is nothing that can justify your desire.”
    Thích Nhất Hạnh, The Art of Power


  • #12
    Albert Schweitzer
    “Think occasionally of the suffering of which you spare yourself the sight.”
    Albert Schweitzer


  • #13
    Fyodor Dostoyevsky
    “What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.”
    Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov


  • #14
    Ramsey Campbell
    “One way to avoid what has already been done is to be true to yourself.”
    Ramsey Campbell


  • #15
    Ramsey Campbell
    “Tradition is a pretty poor excuse for perpetrating stereotypes.”
    Ramsey Campbell


  • #16
    Robert Bloch
    “Despite my ghoulish reputation, I really have the heart of a small boy. I keep it in a jar on my desk.”
    Robert Bloch


  • #17
    Robert Bloch
    “So I had this problem -- work or starve. So I thought I'd combine the two and decided to become a writer.”
    Robert Bloch


  • #18
    Charles Beaumont
    “Then it was horn time. Time for the big solo.

    Sonny lifted the trumpet - One! Two! - He got it into sight - Three!

    We all stopped dead. I mean we stopped.

    That wasn't Sonny's horn. This one was dented-in and beat-up and the tip-end was nicked. It didn't shine, not a bit.

    Lux leaned over-you could have fit a coffee cup into his mouth. "Jesus God," he said. "Am I seeing right?"

    I looked close and said: "Man, I hope not."

    But why kid? We'd seen that trumpet a million times.

    It was Spoof's.

    Rose-Ann was trembling. Just like me, she remembered how we'd buried the horn with Spoof. And she remembered how quiet it had been in Sonny's room last night...

    I started to think real hophead thoughts, like - where did Sonny get hold of a shovel that late? and how could he expect a horn to play that's been under the ground for two years? and -

    That blast got into our ears like long knives.

    Spoof's own trademark!

    Sonny looked caught, like he didn't know what to do at first, like he was hypnotized, scared, almighty scared. But as the sound came out, rolling out, sharp and clean and clear - new-trumpet sound - his expression changed. His eyes changed: they danced a little and opened wide.

    Then he closed them, and blew that horn. Lord God of the Fishes, how he blew it! How he loved it and caressed it and pushed it up, higher and higher and higher. High C? Bottom of the barrel. He took off, and he walked all over the rules and stamped them flat.

    The melody got lost, first off. Everything got lost, then, while that horn flew. It wasn't only jazz; it was the heart of jazz, and the insides, pulled out with the roots and held up for everybody to see; it was blues that told the story of all the lonely cats and all the ugly whores who ever lived, blues that spoke up for the loser lamping sunshine out of iron-gray bars and every hop head hooked and gone, for the bindlestiffs and the city slicers, for the country boys in Georgia shacks and the High Yellow hipsters in Chicago slums and the bootblacks on the corners and the fruits in New Orleans, a blues that spoke for all the lonely, sad and anxious downers who could never speak themselves...

    And then, when it had said all this, it stopped and there was a quiet so quiet that Sonny could have shouted:

    'It's okay, Spoof. It's all right now. You get it said, all of it - I'll help you. God, Spoof, you showed me how, you planned it - I'll do my best!'

    And he laid back his head and fastened the horn and pulled in air and blew some more. Not sad, now, not blues - but not anything else you could call by a name. Except... jazz. It was Jazz.

    Hate blew out of that horn, then. Hate and fury and mad and fight, like screams and snarls, like little razors shooting at you, millions of them, cutting, cutting deep...

    And Sonny only stopping to wipe his lip and whisper in the silent room full of people: 'You're saying it, Spoof! You are!'

    God Almighty Himself must have heard that trumpet, then; slapping and hitting and hurting with notes that don't exist and never existed. Man! Life took a real beating! Life got groined and sliced and belly-punched and the horn, it didn't stop until everything had all spilled out, every bit of the hate and mad that's built up in a man's heart. ("Black Country")”
    Charles Beaumont, American Fantastic Tales: Terror and the Uncanny from the 1940's Until Now
    tags: jazz




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