Quotes from Anne Rice

You're my insatiable blood thief and soul smasher.

Ah, what broken creatures we are, and how we endure.

He was a seer of visions and a dreamer of dreams, unconsciously charming and unfailingly kind.

Even if a ghost is ripping a house to pieces, throwing tin pans all over, pouring water on pillows, making clocks chime at all hours, mortals will accept almost any natural explanation offered, no matter how absurd, rather than the obvious supernatural one, for what is going on.

Was this what he believed, what he had always believed when I talked on and on about goodness? Was he making the violin say it? Was he deliberately creating those long, pure liquid notes to say that beauty meant nothing because it came from the dispair inside him, and it had nothing to do with the desair finally, because the despair wasn't beautiful, and a beauty then was a horrid irony?

Traditions are seldom lies; traditions reflect people's deepest beliefs and customs. They have their own truth

I WANT to be a saint. I want to save souls by the millions. I want to do good far and wide. I want to fight evil! I want my life-sized statue in every church. I'm talking six feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes-. Wait a second. Do you know who I am?

Sometimes hate and love serve exactly the same purpose.

I didn't tell her what it had been like, those few days. But I think she knew. Something magical had been lost utterly.

Dig deep, deep, my soul, to find the heart--the blood, the heat, the shrine and resting place. Dig deep, deep into the moist soil all the way to where they lie, those I love--she, Mother, with her dark hair loose and gone, her bones long since tumbled in the back of the vault, as other coffins came to rest in her spot, but in this dream I range them round me to hold as if she were there...

If I'm an angel, paint me with black wings.

i wondered vaguely what it would be to feel this loss, this outrage, and be justified in it, be deserving of sympathy, of solace. I would not have told my woe to a living creature. My own tears meant nothing to me.

Yes, something about the fabric of life ripping for a moment so you glimpsed things you shouldn't have seen.

It's all about aesthetics, morality and aesthetics are completely similar.

I believe nothing, and therefore like many who believe nothing, I must make something, and that something is the meaning which I give to my life. The saving of witches, the study of the supernatural, these are my lasting pleasures; they make me forget that I do not know why we are born, or why we die, or why the world is here.

The truth is, I hate not being the first person narrator all the way through! To paraphrase David Copperfield, I don't know whether I'm the hero or the victim of this tale. But either way, shouldn't I dominate it?

I'm not myself, I added hesitantly. I haven't survived all this as well as I should have survived it. My body's healed - the old miracle. But I don't understand my present view of things. The bitterness. the utter darkness. Never has life itself seemed so senseless. It's a joke, isn't it? Consciousness, it's a kind of joke.

One can't be a killer every moment of one's life. Some humanity is going to show itself now and then, some hunger for normality, no matter what you do.

Our emotions are different but we have them. We never cast a cold eye on life or death. Don't misunderstand our seeming serenity. After all, we live in a world of perfect trust in The Maker, and we are keenly aware that humans often do not, and we feel an active sorrow for them.

Don't regret it when you don't come to see me. I think I'm timeless. You're here now and you've remembered me. That's what counts.

we are the sum of all we've seen and all we've appreciated and understood. You were the sum of sunshine on marble floors filled with pictures of divine beings who laughed and loved and drank the fruit of the vine as surely as you were the sum of the poets and historians and philosophers you'd read. You were the sum and the fount of what you'd cherished and chosen to abide and all you had loved.

Do we have to confess our loves to everyone? asked Thorne softly. Can we not keep some secrets?

I don't like myself, you know. I love myself, of course, I'm committed to myself till my dying day. But I don't like myself.

The Sucking [of the blood] mesmerized me; the warm struggling of the man was soothing to the tension of my hands; and there came the beating of the drum again, which was the drumbeat of his heart - only this time it beat in perfect rhythm with the drumbeat of my own heart, the two resounding in every fiber of my being, until the bet began to grow slower and slower, so that each was a soft rumble that that threatened to go on without end.I was drowsing, falling into weightlessness;