Quotes About Fear

When my mama was twenty-five she already had an old woman's hands, and I feared them. I did not know then what it was that scared me so. I've come to understand since that it was the thought of her growing old, of her dying and leaving me alone. I feared those brown spots, those wrinkles and cracks that lined her wrists, ankles, and the soft shadowed sides of her eyes.

I did not imagine anyone reading my rambling, ranting stories. I was writing for myself, trying to shape my life outside my terrors and helplessness, to make it visible and real in a tangible way, in the way other people's seemed real -- the lives I had read about in books.

The rage was a good feeling, stronger and purer than the shame that followed, the fear and the sudden urge to run and hide, to deny, to pretend I did not know who I was and what the world would do to me.

If we are not to sacrifice some part of ourselves or our community, we will have to go through the grief, the fear of exposure, and struggle, with only a thin layer of trust that we will emerge whole and unbroken. I know of no other way to do this than to start by saying, I will give up nothing. I will give up no one.

The best fiction comes from the place where the terror hides, the edge of our worst stuff. I believe, absolutely, that if you do not break out in that swear of fear when you write, then you have not gone far enough.

Every time I sit down to write, I have a great fear that anything I write will reveal me as the monster I was always told I would be, but that fear is personal, something I must face in everything I do, every act I contemplate.

The women I loved most in the world horrified me. I did not want to grow up to be them.

Moreover, just as I was terrified of addressing my own racism, so, too, other women were afraid of stepping into the deep and messy waters of class and sexual desire. If we get into this, what might we lose? If we expose this, what might our enemies do with it? And what might it mean? Will we have to throw out all the theory we have built with such pain and struggle? Will we have to start over? How are we going to try to make each other safe while we work it through?

The things you hesitate to talk about," Bertha repeated in her husky North Carolina accent, "those are the things you should be writing about.

I wanted her to love me enough to leave him, to pack us up and take us away from him, to kill him if need be.

Yes, somewhere inside me there is a child always eleven years old, a girlchild who holds the world responsible for all the things that terrify and call to me. But inside me too is the teenager who armed herself and fought back, the dyke who did what she had to, the woman who learned to love without giving in to fear.

Shame comes with denial. Fear fattens on lies.

If it's true, I have the absolute right to terrify you with it.

and I saw all over again what comes of pretending that terrible things do not happen. Shame comes with denial. Fear fattens on lies.

I say, "Talk to me. Tell me who you are, what you want, what you've never had, the story you've always been afraid to tell.

There were no passing cars to call out to. You couldn't call for help from a police car, anyway; he didn't think you could.

She caught up her purse and she ran, ran as if she raced with Death, and as if Death were the fleeter of foot.

Dorothy B. Hughes

She was afraid. It wasn't a tremble of fear. It was a dark hood hanging over her head. She was meant to die. That was why she was on the Chief speeding eastward. This was her bier.

No reason to feel nervous at night, not even at eleven thirty at night, in the heart of New York. Nothing ever happened to her kind of people; things happened to people living down those cross streets in old red bricks or old brownstones. Things threatened silver and gold dancers there in the Iridium Room across. But things didn't happen to her or anyone she knew.

You'll get him," Sylvia said, pushing conviction into her wish. "We'll get him." Brub believed it. "But how many women will be murdered first?" He tipped up the glass.

They are afraid of him?' D'Harcourt raised his comedian's eyebrows. Danny Hislop's bright teeth flashed in his hairless, unremarkable face. 'If they were afraid, they'd tear him to pieces like schoolgirls. My guess is that he's gorgeous. A terrible tease and nasty at moments, but oh Maeve, he has such a way with him.… Is he gorgeous, dear Adam?' Adam Blacklock, thus addressed, said quietly, 'Undoubtedly gorgeous.

For spirits one requires a strong head or else a weak brain, and I fear I possess neither.

There was no place for him there or in Scotland, compared to the one he held in Russia. And although Diccon Chancellor once had thought, wistfully, of a land where likeminded friends might meet and might talk and might make new and astounding discoveries, free of fear, he knew that it was not to be found yet in England.