Well, the first thing is that I love monsters, I identify with monsters.
Most of my monsters fail altogether to satisfy my sense of the cosmic--the abnormally chromatic entity in "The Colour Out of Space" being the only one of the lot which I take any pride in.
I think the willfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.
As destruction goes, the monster said behind him, this is all remarkably pitiful.
The justifications of men who kill should always be heard with skepticism, said the monster.
The monster showed up just after midnight. As they do.
War makes monsters out of men.
It is a true story, the monster said. Many things that are true feel like a cheat.
And otherwise normal men become monsters, too.
It is a condition of monsters that they do not perceive themselves as such. The dragon, you know, hunkered in the village devouring maidens, heard the townsfolk cry 'Monster!' and looked behind him.