Quotes from Poppy Z. Brite

He wasn't much for erasing anyway. Sometimes your mistakes showed you the really interesting connections between your brain, your hand, and your heart, the ones you might otherwise never know were there. They were important even if you had no idea what they meant. Like now, for instance. Coming back here might be the biggest mistake he'd ever made. But it might also be the most important thing he'd ever done.

Atheists loved to use that term to describe some shadowy force that somehow controlled human destiny, but what the hell did they think the universe was? Did they think the stars and nebulae took an interest in their doings, and if they really meant God, why couldn't they just say so?

In every long-term relationship are a few pockets of deep and dangerous water into which one can step unaware if not careful. Eventually, somebody drowns or the interested parties post warning signs around these pockets.

Ah, relationships. If he was lucky, Luke thought, he would never have another one.

If you find yourself imitating another writer, that doesn't have to be a bad thing, especially if you are a young or a new writer. However, you should be conscious of exactly how you are imitating him - word choice, sentence structure, motifs? - and think about why you're doing it.

Sometimes we gotta be brave even when we're scared. We gotta not let being scared keep us from thinkin' straight. That's all brave is, boy, when you come right down to it, not lettin' the fear get you so turned around you start doin' stupid things, instead of what you know you ought to do.

Out here the wild things are healthy, the old trees whose roots find sustenance far below the ill-used layer of topsoil, the occasional rosebush gone to green thicket and thorns, the unstoppable kudzu. It is as if they have decided to take back the land for their own.

And that's another thing. What if I were to talk to Tanker, find out if he's happy at the Polonius Room, see if maybe he wants to come back? He was always such a key part of this kitchen. Rickey pointed a chocolate-smudged finger at Lenny. Don't you dare. If I decide I want to talk to him, I'll talk to him. I told you, I don't need you handling my business for me. I understand, Lenny said, making a mental note to call Tanker.

Yielding flesh in his hands, hot with fear, sticky with sweat and blood and already smelling of heaven. Helpless bones his to crack, helpless skin his to rip open, sweet red river his to drink from. He had to do it. He had to know. With his eyes and his hands, with all his body, he had to see.

They were kissing again, carefully at first, learning the shape and texture of each other's lips, testing the sharpness of the teeth behind them. It's too fast, said a panicky voice in his mind. And too dangerous. He'll drink your juices, taste your brain, crack your soul open like an egg! Hell, I think I want him to do all that.

No, said a voice from the dark doorway. A weary voice, a voice for speaking long after midnight, a voice to be used when all paths are blocked, when castles have fallen to ruins, when morning will not come again.

the skull always grinned because it knew it would emerge triumphant, that it would comprise the sole identity of the face long after vain baubles like lips and skin and eyes were gone.

Rickey sometimes wondered what would have become of them if the Peychaud crew hadn't imploded one night in a marathon of apocalyptic drunkenness. No one remembered much of this night, but by the end of it, two cars were totaled, the sous chef and the bartender were in Charity Hospital, the chef was in jail, and the grill guy's wife was filing for divorce. The owner decided to close the place and they found themselves jobless. Rickey guessed this kind of thing was known as a wake-up call

I carried my pint to a corner table and sat just looking at it for a moment: the head of foam, the tiny bubbles ascending through clear gold, the droplets condensing on the sides of the glass, then running down to form a wet circle on the beer mat. Reputations are ruined, marriages destroyed, lifes works forsaken for the beauty of such a sight. There are seven thousand pubs in London.

I don't think it is possible to give tips for finding one's voice; it's one of those things for which there aren't really any tricks or shortcuts, or even any advice that necessarily translates from writer to writer. All I can tell you is to write as much as possible.

Terry remembered a summer two or three years ago when there had been a plague of luna moths (...) One night Ghost has mused aloud that to the bats, the moths' blood must taste like crème de la menthe.

Stay with me.' His eyes shone. 'Play with me.

So what do I do with the rest of my time? he thought. Live rent-free with my parents, write in my notebooks, go out dancing, catch a buzz, get laid? It doesn't sound so bad. But what if I only have, say, five more years to live?

I'd say to myself, Andrew Compton, you've sucked their cold mouths and cocks; you've licked their blood from your hands by the bucketful; you've boiled the flesh off their skulls, then used the same pot to make curry. Why not just fry up a few tender bits and see what it's like—perhaps with a nice egg?

Jay stopped and unlocked an iron gate with finals wrought in the shape of pineapples.

Death doesn't hurt," said one of the twins, and a light came into his silver eyes. "Death is dark, death is sweet." The other twin took up the litany. "Death is all that lasts forever. Death is eternal beauty." "Death is a lover with a thousand tongues—" "A thousand insect caresses—" "Death is easy.

A heart like an artichoke?" "Oui. He has a leaf for everyone, but makes a meal for no one.

Atheists loved to use that term to describe some shadowy force that somehow controlled human destiny, but what the hell did they think the universe was?

Before August 29, 2005, "antediluvian" was simply a word to me, a pretty Biblical reference that had a nice ring to it but no real personal resonance for me. I vaguely understood that it connoted a state of innocence