Michael Moorcock

From the ceiling came the miserable, neurotic drone of the Everly Brothers. He let it play, deepening his mood. If a mood was worth having, he thought, it was worth having profoundly.

“I’ll be seeing you,” said Jerry.

Koutrouboussis chuckled to himself. “At this rate you’ll be raising me, too.”

Stagnation’s no substitute for stability.

Yesterday’s underdog is tomorrow’s tyrant.

Even ruin could not make it picturesque. The streets were awash with weather-stained postcards, bedraggled and muddy King Arthur tea-towels, broken plastic Holy Grails, Excaliburs carved from chalk, tiny Round Tables to hang on the wall, and polystyrene crowns. In the reign of one Elizabeth the ideal had reached perfection and, in the reign of another, it had achieved its ultimate degradation.

“The schizophrenic condition finds its most glorious expression in Hinduism,” remarked Professor Hira. “Whereas Christianity is an expression of the much less interesting paranoid frame of reference. Paranoia is rarely heroic, in the mythical sense, at least.”

Some try to understand the world, while others seek to impose their understanding on it. Unfortunately, Mr. Smiles, these latter folk are those least equipped to perform the operation. Like Frankenstein, my dear Mr. Smiles, they produce a monster.

I was thinking of going into the assassination business. You know what a dreamer I am. Would it be too much of a hit and myth operation, do you think?

Is there anything sadder, I wonder, than an assassin with nobody left to kill?

“There’s more to life than drugs and sex, Mr. Cornelius.”

“There’s more than life to drugs and sex. It’s better than nothing.”

How many generations need to comply in a fallacy before it becomes accepted as truth?

“Better the myth of happiness,” Harlequin murmured, “than the myth of despair.”