Quotes About Ghost

Ghost Lore among the Tribes of New Guinea and West Sumatra

You want me to talk with a dangerous Type Three ghost inside another haunted zone, with who knows what other Visitors around? Are you both mad? You expected me to agree to that?

I can't compete with a ghost or a perfect memory...I'm just a man...Flesh and blood. If you decide that's what you want, you know where to find me...

So that's when I came up with the most ridiculous plan since I'd decided to take a witness statement from a ghost. It was a plan so stupid that even Baldrick would have rejected it out of hand.

He asked if we were really ghost hunting, and I said we were. "What, like officially?" "Officially secret," I said because discretion is supposed to be, if not our middle name, at least a nickname we occasionally answer to when we remember.

Equipment for ghost hunters: thermal underwear, very important; warm coat; thermos flask; patience; ghost.

I slumped down in the easy chair. 'You've been dead for two hundred years, Henry,' I said. 'I'm fairly certain you can't murder someone who's already dead.' If you could, I thought, the Met would have a form for it.

I been worryin' that my time is a little unclear I been worryin' that I'm losing the one's I hold dear I been worryin' that we all live our lives in the confines of fear "Oh my ghost came by Said who do you love the most Who you wanna call before you die Oh hey heaven is the place we know Heaven is the arms that hold us Long before we go

Oh my ghost came by Said who do you love the most Who you wanna call before you die Oh hey heaven is the place we know Heaven is the arms that hold us Long before we go

It may be that what you could be haunts you. It is real. It is a weight you have to carry around. Each failure to become, to be, is a weight. Each state you could inhabit is a burden as heavy as any physical weight, but more so, because it weighs on your soul. It is the ghost of your possibilities hanging around your neck, an invisible albatros, potentials unknowingly murdered.

I noticed that in a corner, across from where they ate with such innocent relish, sitting forlorn and abandoned, was the ghost of their son. He had lost both of his arms, one side of his face was squashed, and both his eyes had burst. He had bluish wings. He was the saddest ghost in the house.

Very often what will happen between actors is that they'll develop kind of a ghost relationship in real life that reflects their relationship on screen or in the play that they're doing. In fact, I'd say that happens almost every time. I don't know why that happens, but it seems very common.

I grew up doing regional Shakespeare, and when Hamlet sees the ghost of his father, there's something about that that you don't really do in film anymore.

I took a break from horror; I made three ghost movies back-to-back-to-back.

You are perfectly justified in scoffing at the outrageous transparency of it if I tell you that his wife said that he was so pale that he looked as if he had seen a ghost, but that is, indeed, what she said. Art cannot rescue anybody from anything.

One's own yesterday is a ghost that will not be laid. Death is the only exorcism.

One's own yesterday is a ghost that will not be laid. Death is the only exorcism.

Sometimes it's not such a terrible thing to have a ghost in your phone.

Fine," he said. "Murph, you wanna talk science, don't just tell me you're scared of some ghost. Record the facts, analyze—present your conclusions.

Murph, you wanna talk science, don't just tell me you're scared of some ghost. Record the facts, analyze—present your conclusions.

Washaway Beach, a spot on the Washington Coast known for its rapidly eroding beach, where ghost cabins and trailers hang over the swirling ocean and surfers ride the gray waves in the distance.

Yesterday upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there. He wasn't there again today, I wish to hell he'd go away.

My first book, 'To Be or Not To Be,' took 'Hamlet' and converted it to the choose-your-own-path format. It was a great fit for a book where you control what happens - a book as game - because the plot of 'Hamlet' is very game-like: get a mission from a ghost to kill the final boss, kill the final boss, and game over. You win.

It was not just because he was old, and looked old to them, but because he was a pensioned ghost from the strange past, a pointless survivor, an old soldier of forgotten wars. A remnant, with a torn gansey for a soul.