Quotes About Ghost

Which amoung the colourful and crowded palette of bizarre disorders of the mind had left the ghost of a brush stroke on his brain

Vex not his ghost: O! let him pass; he hates himThat would upon the rack of this tough worldStretch him out longer.

I now live in a ghost world, and not everyone who was once close to me wants to venture into this shadowy place to hang out with me. Some people are clearly spooked. I remind them of their own frailty and mortality. I get it; it's understandable. But it confirms my spectral status to me.

The horizon was shitting a sun, casting a glow on a layer of fog that was settling in the low areas like puddles of ghost piss.

I had kept Stoker hard at work, coaxing and bullying him into the best state he had known since she had annihilated him, and now her name was spoken once more, like a terrible incantation summoning a ghost that had never been entirely laid.

He returned the smile and extended his arm. I slipped mine through his and we walked on in the warm sunshine, the smell of jasmine faint on the air as somewhere behind us trailed a ghost who whispered poetry in my ear and teased a breeze to touch my cheek.

kenangan itu cuma hantu di sudut pikir. selama kita diam dan ngga berbuat apa-apa, selamanya dia tetap jadi hantu, ngga akan pernah jadi kenyataan.

That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.

Passara anos a duvidar se eu estava morto e a desejar que estivesse vivo, e o seu desejo vira-se recompensado. Agora, pelo contrário, segundo me parecia, não queria saber se eu permanecia na terra ou se saía disparado dela. Tinha sido em vida, aquando do meu regresso, que deixara de existir. Não se prescinde de um fantasma, pois nunca está cumprido; de um marido desnecessário, derrotado, ensimesmado e sombrio, sim.

If an addict who has been completely cured starts smoking again he no longer experiences the discomfort of his first addiction. There exists, therefore, outside alkaloids and habit, a sense for opium, an intangible habit which lives on, despite the recasting of the organism. The dead drug leaves a ghost behind. At certain hours it haunts the house.

All ghost stories come to this, she understood. All ghost stories end in one of these two ways: You are dead or I am dead. If people only understood this, Portia thought, they would never be frightened, they would only need to ask themselves, Who among us has died? And then it occurred to her that she was the ghost in her story. She had spent years haunting her own life, without ever noticing.

What love had been there was already slipping away. She could still sense it like a ghost in the room, vague and inanimate, but she could no longer feel it. Her affection had gone, leached out, like blood from a cadaver. When he squeezed her fingers, she caught the scent of formaldehyde. When he hooked his sad gaze into hers, she saw the glass of his lenses, spattered with blood.

I looked at Jake. I was firmly planted in the 'Lolly is real' camp. Our real estate agent had passed on the bit about Lolly being the ghost of the original owner of the home and that past residents had reported her presence due to various incidents. The one thing they'd all mentioned, however, was that she'd seemed friendly and helpful, as far as ghosts go. I was totally fine with a friendly and helpful ghost.

Okay, obviously I didn't die or I wouldn't be able to relate this tender little narrative. Unless, of course, I'm a ghost, writing these words through an Ouija board. That would be pretty cool, but also incredibly time consuming, and the human I was channeling through would probably try to steal all the credit.

Ghost bird, do you love me?" he whispered once in the dark, before he left for his expedition training, even though he was the ghost. "Ghost bird, do you need me?" I loved him, but I didn't need him, and I thought that was the way it was supposed to be.

in death, he is not even the ghost he was in life.

Because without that source of wonder, I know that I am doomed. Without it, I will forever wander the world in a state of bottomless dissatisfaction—nothing but a howling ghost, trapped in a body made of slowly deteriorating meat.

And since creativity is still the most effective way for me to access wonder, I choose it. I choose to block out all the external (and internal) noise and distractions, and to come home again and again to creativity. Because without that source of wonder, I know that I am doomed. Without it, I will forever wander the world in a state of bottomless dissatisfaction—nothing but a howling ghost, trapped in a body made of slowly deteriorating meat

An unchecked ego is what the Buddhists call "a hungry ghost"—forever famished, eternally howling with need and greed.

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee,Walled round with rocks as an inland island,The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.

She knows not loves that kissed her She knows not where. Art thou the ghost, my sister, White sister there, Am I the ghost, who knows? My hand, a fallen rose, Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.

Oh! a real ghost story!" cried Helen. "Do let's hear it.

I don't find it, I don't think it is to be found. It's like passionate love for a ghost

as soon as the grief as soon as a ghost begins to shake me from the inside