Quotes from Anne Rice

We truly are all one tribe," said the iron-haired ghost softly. "Human, vampire, spirit, ghost—we're all sentient creatures bound to this planet. Why can't we work together in the face of something like this?

I'm too much the slave of my own obsessions and fascination.

Finally I closed my eyes and opened them again, and I smiled very gently at the creature.

The horror was this: the others.

The problem with retiring to a desert place was that Daniel would hate it. And keeping Daniel happy was the second rule of his life, as his own sense of well-being, his own capacity to open his eyes each evening with some desire to actually rise from the dead and celebrate the gift of life, was connected to and sustained by making Daniel happy.

I picture heaven as a vast library, with unlimited volumes to read. And paintings and statues to examine

Davis was a beautiful black vampire, and Killer had loved him.

Stella seems the most carefree, the most flamboyant, the most daring, and the only Mayfair Witch ever bent entirely upon "having fun.

And I'll know people like you,' I went on, 'people who have thoughts in their heads and quick tongues with which to voice them, and we'll sit in cafes and we'll drink together and we'll clash with each other violently in words, and we'll talk for the rest of our lives in devine excitement.

Lestat might be the hero of the Vampire Chronicles, but this one, Louis, was the tragic heart. Yet he seemed at long last to have achieved a kind of peace with the ghastly realities of his existence and the existence of all those around him who outranked him in power but not necessarily in insight or wisdom.

Three generations before I was the one meant for the necklace. I saw him when I was three years old, so clear and strong that he could slip his warm hand in mine, he could lift me in the air, yes, lift my body, but I refused him. I turned my back on him. I told him, You go back to the hell from which you came. And I used my power to fight him.

Beside him walked a vampire nearly as old as Gregory, and indeed this one was none other than Seth, the son of the ancient Mother.

Love. Who knows about another's love? The more you love the more you know the burnt out loss of love, the more you heed the silence of unknowing in the face of another's spiritual bondage.

She had already turned. She watched him in amazement as he made his way slowly across the lawn and into the house. Pandora stepped back for him, and we all watched in respectful silence as he sat down near the piano, his back to the front right leg of it, and his knees brought up and his head resting wearily on his folded arms. He closed his eyes. Sybelle, I asked, would you play it for him? The Appassionata, again, if you would. And of course, she did.

Los pensamientos son imprecisos. Si te abro mi mente, no puedo controlar realmente lo que puedas leer en ella. Y, si soy yo quien lee en la tuya, es posible malinterprete lo que vea u oiga. Prefiero utilizar el lenguaje hablado y dejar que mis facultades mentales se expresen a traves de el....Para ser totalmente sincero, creo que el lenguaje es el mayor don que comparten mortales e inmortales.

Symphony of malice, symphony of madness coming through the walls, philosophy straining to contain the ghastly images, the torture, to surround it with language Ã¢â'¬Â¦

Lord, set my heart afire with faith, because I am losing faith. Lord, touch my heart, and set it afire.

I don't know how to be bad at being bad.

First time my master's in English literature ever proved useful.

my motto, what it's always been. I refuse to be bad at what I do, and that includes being bad. I won't be bad at being bad. I

Of course we cannot know what will happen as the old religion thoroughly dies out. Christianity rose on the ashes of paganism, only to carry forth the old worship in new form. Maybe a new religion will rise now. Maybe without it, man will crumble in cynicism and selfishness because he really needs his gods.

First and foremost, there is one God, and his name does not matter. Yahweh, Ahuramazda, Zeus, Aten, it does not matter at all.

But Marchent, most journalists can't be trusted. You do know that, don't you?

the moral world seemed some desperate dream of rationality that in this lush and fetid jungle had not the slightest chance.