Quotes About Jeff Vandermeer

I do believe very much in the idea of unexpected or 'convulsive' beauty - beauty in the service of liberty.

The stories he told became boring to me through repetition, but I understand now that he was just trying to fix that place with the compass of his memories.

No doubt the detour to deliver Lake had made the sheep late for an appointment.

Control said nothing, had said nothing for quite some time, as if he didn't trust words anymore. Or had begun to cherish the answers silence gave him.

Thank you for your service, for your many years. Now take your weird art and get the fuck out.

subtle or bold, The Weird acknowledges that our search for understanding about worlds beyond our own cannot always be found in science or religion and thus becomes an alternative path for exploration of the numinous.

There was a tear in the sleeve of her blouse. Her pink nail polish had chipped. Details were escaping her. I sympathized.

He's a man who measures words as if he had only a few given to him by Fate; too generous a syllable from his lips, and he might fall over dead.

precision in gardens was too much like turning a wolf on the prowl into a pug with an embroidered ruffle for a collar. She much preferred the wolf.

It was a trivial entertainment piece, capable of neither harm nor good.

Area X, before the ill-defined Event that locked it behind the border thirty years ago and made it subject to so many inexplicable occurrences, had been part of a wilderness that lay adjacent to a military base.

The snow came quickly, white hornets stinging in the thin atmospheric night.

If they did, I would just have rebuilt it even better and told everyone about the grim kid who talked to frogs." I had never talked to the frogs; I despised anthropomorphizing animals.

The air trickling out of his mouth like a series of tiny lies about the world that had decided to extinguish him.

He had brand-new pink-jade biogem eyes, and they made him look like a geriatric rabbit.

He knew, too, that nukes were locked in on Area X from the nearest silos, military satellites keeping watch from above.

Control said nothing, had said nothing for quite some time as if he didn't trust words anymore. Or had begun to cherish the answers silence gave him.

What would you have done, reader, who has been able to follow me like the Magician followed me, invisible and ever-watchful and without consequence? *

I'm not an answering machine—I don't have a message for you! What I have for you is a story.

the tower was breathing. The tower breathed, and the walls when I went to touch them carried the echo of a heartbeat Ã¢â'¬Â¦ and they were not made of stone but of living tissue

Nothing that lived and breathed was truly objective—even in a vacuum, even if all that possessed the brain was a self-immolating desire for the truth.

Jeff VanderMeer's fiction has always been entrancingly, engagingly, enthusiastically weird, a winning combination of mimesis and the fantastical that privileges neither component: perhaps the very definition of that mode categorized as the 'New Weird' and exemplified most famously by the groundbreaking work of China Mieville.

I have always tended toward a lush prose style, but I take care to modulate it from story to story and to strip it down entirely when necessary.

Vladimir Nabokov liked to examine cruelty and the human condition. That didn't mean he was cruel; there's no evidence he kicked puppies just for the fun of it. Similarly, 'Black Mirror' likes to examine possible dystopias, but that doesn't mean the show is cynical enough to endorse them.