Quotes About Author

Mael wore the astonished expression of an innocent.

Too many times, religion mothers crimes and wickedness.

There was no need to wound him further, to shift from him the limelight of his own tale, which Lestat being the bright star, must always have.

All the little ghosts had fled. The convent was mine. Memnoch's servant; Memnoch's prince. I was never alone in my person.

I was too pale of soul, too numbed, to used to seeing all things as figments in a series of unconnected dreams.

The Dead Guy, Louis, or whoever he was, had been made Dead down in New Orleans and the book was full of stuff about banana leaves and iron railings and Spanish moss.

Marius of the many names and the many houses and the many lifetimes. So you have chosen a lovely child.

He glanced at the huge somber portrait of Manfred Blackwood, my venerable ancestor.

With his flowing hair, he much resembled the Vampire Lestat. He is taller than Lestat, but he has the same lithe build, the same very blue eyes and a muscular strength to him, and a squareness of face which is almost pretty.

Whether you and Marius made up some of what was written in your books I don't know. You and comrades, the Coven of the Articulate, as you are now called, may well have a penchant for telling lies.

I want you who were kidnapped and made a vampire against your will to look kindly on me because the same thing happened to me.

A need to apologize stole over me again, perhaps because Lestat seemed lost in his judgment of the place.

God knows that I have some accursed capacity to draw their attention and to endow them with some crucial vitality.

Now I remarked a little while ago that I wanted the Talamasca to envelop her in fantasy, to give her everything she should desire.

She was too distracted by the alluring creature standing before her table, with his cordial blue eyes.

The conflict lies between the morals of the artist and the morals of society, not between aesthetics and morality. But

It was the man of memory and the man of visions that I knew as soon as I studied him.

It's how I exist and always have existed since I was taken out of mortal life by malicious and disciplined hands.

I know nothing of those heroes of macabre facts masquerading as fiction.

In rambling drunken confession, the father gave forth his guilt as though it belonged to anyone who roused.

that moment, the two sylphs in the forest, only nights

The man mattered as the monks had mattered. It was the man who had wrung the strong emotions from him. The man had bright from him bold words.

I can't think of the fate of these pages, except that they are very much for her, as I mentioned to you before, and if I'm allowed to title them I think it will be Symphony for Sybelle.

I let the Mind Gift loose, casting for the one at the mirror, and caught the whisper of murder at once.