Quotes from Clive Barker

Eu não sabia o que estava a perder', disse Harvey. 'Ah...', disse Hood, suavemente 'mas não é sempre assim que as coisas se passam? Há coisas que nos deslizam pelos dedos e só quando se vão embora é que nos arrependemos. Mas aquilo que se vai embora não volta, Harvey Swick!

I'll love you until the death of love

The presence of phantoms – everywhere – their faces, ripe with need and unspent passion, trailing their hunger like pollen from flowers that were past their hour but refused to wither and disappear.

He spoke of both dancing and death with equal nonchalance, as though one carried as little significance as the other. It calmed her, hearing him talk that way.

Not a classic reunion. The lover, on seeing his beloved, throws up down his shirt. But then, nothing that happened between Jacqueline and myself was ever quite normal.

Men's supply of passion, she knew from long experience, was easily depleted. Though they might threaten to move earth and heaven too, half an hour later their boasts would be damp sheets and resentment.

So quickly? Todd cleared away another wave of tears and looked down at the body on the table. Dempsey's eye was still half-open, but it didn't look back at him any longer. Where there'd been a sliver of bright life, where there'd been mischief and shared rituals—where, in short, there'd been Dempsey—there was nothing.

Odiaba las fiestas. Las sonrisas pegadas con engrudo para tapar el pánico, las miradas que había que interpretar y lo peor de todo: la conversación.

Horror fiction tends to be reactionary. It's usually about to return to the status quo -- the monster is the outsider who must be banished from the sanctum. But over and over again, I've created monsters who come from the outside and who call out to somebody to join them in the sanctum.

Once you conceded defeat, life was a feather bed. In

Of such divine neglect was atheism made; belief could not be rekindled now, however profound his terror. Thoughts

Perhaps to be flawless was another kind of sadness.

All rising to great place is by a winding stair. —Sir Francis Bacon

He spent three months in a wash of depression and self-pity that bordered the suicidal. But even that solution was denied him by his new found nihilism. If nothing was worth living for it followed , didn't it , that there was nothing worth dying for either.

A skin was nothing. Pigs had skins; snakes had skins. They were knitted of dead cells, shed and grown and shed again. But a name? That was a spell, which summoned memories.

He got to his feet and stumbled away from the stench of his vomit, making his way through this graveyard of old glories, heading for the darkest place he could find in which to hide his giddy head.

Nothing ever begins. There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs.

But when I look out at it I think, well, it's going to take us all one of these days, whoever we are: mad bastards, lovers, drunkards, it's not going to pick and choose. We'll all go to nothing sooner or later. And you know, maybe it's my age, but that doesn't worry me any longer. We all have our time, and when it's over, it's over.

Nobody's allowed to come and mourn, you see. Out of sight, out of mind: that's the idea. Of course, that's not the way it works, is it? People forget prime ministers, but they remember murderers.

he felt sick as a flea in a leper's jock strap.

Nor in prayer either. He had told Billy the truth, about his giving up God when his prayers for his father's life had gone unanswered. Of such divine neglect was aetheism made; belief could not be rekindled now, however profound his terror.

It was, for a moment, not her who started out between the bars. It was something dredged up from the bottom of the sea. Black eyes swiveling in a gray head. Some primeval genus that viewed him — he knew this to his marrow — with hatred in its bowels.

Who in their right minds would trust someone who made a profession out of poking around in sick people?

Yes, he knew his face was finely made, his forehead broad, his gaze haunting, his lips sculpted so that even a sneer looked fetching on them, but he needed a living mirror to tell him so.