Any fool can be happy. It takes a man with real heart to make beauty out of the stuff that makes us weep.
Nothing else wounds so deeply and irreparably. Nothing else robs us of hope so much as being unloved by one we love
[Horror fiction] shows us that the control we believe we have is purely illusory, and that every moment we teeter on chaos and oblivion.
Writing about the unholy is one way of writing about what is sacred.
Here is a list of terrible things,The jaws of sharks, a vultures wingsThe rabid bite of the dogs of war,The voice of one who went before,But most of all the mirror’s gaze,Which counts us out our numbered days.
We’re both thieves, Harvey Swick. I take time. You take lives. But in the end we’re the same: both Thieves of Always.
Funny that. We live in islands of Hours and we never seem to have time enough for anything…
In my ArtI have butone fear:that we willfail to befearless.
Everybody is a book of blood; wherever we’re opened, we’re red.
That’s half of your trouble,” muttered the crocodile. “You believe everything’s true.””That’s because everything is,” replied Mr. Bacchus.
The great grey beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive.
We’re making strange fictions of strange things inside ourselves.
you must be careful with kindness. It’s usually mistaken for weakness by stupid people.
Men. Young men. Legal age, mind you. But young nonetheless. And it’s not what you think. When we meet, we make … magic.
I really believe that there is an enormous appetite amongst readers for an originality of vision. In other words, be true to your own dreams and there will always be people who want to hear them.
Meaning is always a latecomer. Beauty and music seduce us first; later ashamed of our own sensuality, we insist on meaning.
Walk with care in dark places, and do not put your faith in anyone who promises you the forgiveness of the Lord or a certain place in Paradise.
All Darkness was one darkness in the end. Of heart or Heavens, one Darkness.
O little one, My little one, Come with me, Your life is done. Forget the future, Forget the past. Life is over: Breathe your last.
All things are true. God’s an Astronaut. Oz is Over the Rainbow, and Midian is where the monsters live.” – Peloquin
Dorothea: “What the fuck are you?”Nix: “A man who wanted to be a God…then changed his mind.
Kaufman almost smiled at the perfection of its horror. He felt an offer of insanity tickling the base of his skull, tempting him into oblivion, promising a blank indifference to the world.
Living in Hell kept him aware of the possibility of Heaven, and he’d never felt more alive.
You’ve always got me”“Always?”“Didn’t I just say so?”“Yes”“Am I liar? ““No.” I lied.
I have deeper journeys to take. Metaphysical journeys to see Christ. Shaman journeys. It’s what I have been elected by God to do.
The flawlessly beautiful were flawlessy happy, weren’t they? To Kristy this had always seemed self-evident. Tonight, however, the alcohol made her wonder if envy hadn’t blinded her. Perhaps to be flawless was another kind of sadness.
Born from different parents, they were siblings in death, destroyed by the same hand.
I was cured in my new infamy of all the tired wisdom of age. I would never weary into that tired state again—I swore to myself, I would always be this raw, wet child hereafter…
Dream!Forge yourself and riseOut of your mind and into others.Men, be women.Fish, be flies.Girls, take beards.Sons, be your mothers.The future of the world now liesIn coral wombs behind our eyes.
Angels have very nasty tempers. Especially when they’re feeling righteous.
We cry for ourselves, don’t we? Not for the dead. The dead are past caring.
They knew a lot, the dead. How many times had she said to Harry they were the world’s greatest untapped resource? It was true. All they’d seen, all they’d suffered, all they’d triumphed over – lost to a world in need of wisdom.
Journey to the end of day, Come the fire-fly, Come the moon; Say a prayer for God’s good grace And sleep with lore upon your face.
Witch, do this for me,Find me a moonmade of longing.Then cut it sliver thin,and having cut it,hang it highabove my beloved’s house,so that she may look uptonightand see it,and seeing it, sigh for meas I sigh for her,moon or no moon.
Didn’t open the box? What was it last time? Didn’t know what it was? And yet we do keep finding each other, don’t we? – Cenobite
A monster lies in wait in me,A stew of wounds and misery,But fiercer still in life and limb,The me that lies in wait in him.
The world had seen so many Ages: the Age of Enlightenment; of Reformation; of Reason. Now, at last, the Age of Desire. And after this, an end to Ages; an end, perhaps, to everything.
I don’t feel there’s any reason to apologise for having a wicked imagination. I think it’s important as a maker of fantasy and of horror.
Neil Gaiman is a star. He constructs stories like some demented cook might make a wedding cake, building layer upon layer, including all kinds of sweet and sour in the mix.