When we talk about our lives, long or short, brief and tragic or enduring beyond comprehension, we impose a continuity on them, and that continuity is a lie.
Pride is the parent of destruction; pride eats the mind and the heart and the soul alive.
Get thee behind me, tragedy.
Oh, if the moon only had a secret, if the moon only held a truth. But the moon was just the moon.
God, what is it like to be You and hear all those people all the time everywhere, begging, imploring, calling out for anything and anyone?
Maybe a new religion will rise now. Maybe without it, man will crumble in cynicism and selfishness because he really needs his gods.
I saw finally the futility of all these gestures, that witchcraft is but a matter of focus-that one cann apply one’s fierce and immeasurable energies to an act of choice.
What is fear after all? It is indecision. You seek some way to resist, escape. There is none.
It was as if this night were only one of thousands of nights, world without end, night curving into night to make a great arching line of which I couldn’t see the end, a night in which I roamed alone under cold, mindless stars.
Like all strong people, she suffered always a measure of loneliness; she was a marginal outsider, a secret infidel of a certain sort.
Would that death were like this. Would that one would sleep and sleep and sleep forever.
How could anyone love Him? What did you just tell me yourself about the world? Don’t you see, everybody hates God now. It’s not that God is dead in the twentieth century. It’s that everybody hates Him! At least I think so.
God, why didn’t you make us all dogs?
Let the flesh instruct the mind.
The atheism and nihilism of my earlier years now seems shallow, and even a bit cocky.
I wasn’t sent here to find angels! I wasn’t sent here to dream of them. I wasn’t sent here to hear them sing! I was sent here to be alive. To breathe and sweat and thirst and sometimes cry.
It was over now, and the meaningless world was tolerable and need not be explained. And never would it be, and how foolish I had ever been to think so.
Amazing what the British do with language; the nuances of politeness. The world’s great diplomats, surely.
His blood coursed through my veins sweeter than life itself. And as it did, Lestats words made sense to me. I knew peace only when I killed and when I heard his heart in that terrible rhythm, I knew again what peace could be.
You look good to me, you damnable little devil, good to embrace and good to love.