Quotes About Horror

I hate violence, and I didn't plan to write horror; it just poured out of me.

Through my mind, is just the horror of these people. I had been held by them, I knew how violent they were.

I think 'Piranha' won't be in the guilty-pleasure category, because it's gonna be - well, yeah, maybe for some people. From what I've seen, it has a sense of humor about itself, and it's also really scary and really, really violent. I would call it a popcorn movie from the planet Popcorn.

The only thing that would really make my mother angry would be if I liked horror movies or violence or Ronald Reagan. And very violent films were a way for me to rebel. You have to rebel against your parents.

The beauty of the horror genre is that you can smuggle in these harder stories, and the genre comes with certain demands, but mostly you need to find the catharsis in whatever story you're telling. What may be seen as a deterrent for audiences in one genre suddenly becomes a virtue in another genre.

I booked a horror film called 'Where the Devil Hides.' It's... you know, a horror film. But it was the first full-length movie I'd ever done, and it got me my visa, and I could start work.

When you're watching Psycho, there' s that moment when you have a visceral reaction to watching someone being stabbed. And then you have the intellectual revelation that you're not, and that's where the celebration comes in.

I'm a big fan of horror movies. But I prefer visceral to viscous, let's just say that.

Monsters just outside our peripheral vision are scarier to contemplate than monsters miles away or in someplace only a fool would set foot in.

When you see somebody who's got a complaining personality, it usually means that they had some vision of what things could be, and they're constantly disappointed by that. I think that would be the camp that I would fall into - constantly horrified by the things people do.

What horror to awake at night and in the dimness see the light. Time is white mosquitoes bite I've spent my life on nothing. The thought that stings. How are you, Nothing, sitting around with Something's wife. Buzz and burn is all I learn I've spent my life on nothing. I'm pillowed and padded, pale and puffing lifting household stuffing— carpets, dishes benches, fishes I've spent my life in nothing.

Pasture, stone wall, and steeple, What most perturbs the mind: The heart-rending homely people, Or the horrible beautiful kind?

The funny thing about murder is that the act is often committed decades before the actual action. Something happens, and it leads, inexorably, to death many years later. A bad seed is planted. It's like those old horror films from the Hammer studios, of the monster, not running, never running, but walking without pause, without thought or mercy, toward its victim. Murder is often like that. It starts way far off.

Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture with curling lip? The lines from Ruth Zardo's poem exploded in his head. In his chest. Me, he realized with horror. I did.

That moment of horror had finally given the young gardener what she'd longed for. Company. Acceptance. It was too bad it came at such a cost, but then peace often did.

Gamache dug his hands into the bark, feeling the wood pinch his palm, glad for the pain to concentrate on. His horrible fear, and the terrible betrayal, wasn't that he'd trip and fall, or even that the wooden blind would tumble to the ground. It was that he'd throw himself over the edge. That was the horror of vertigo. He felt pulled to the edge and over as if an anchor was attached to his leg. Unaided, unthreatened, he would essentially kill himself.

You see them? You see the things that float and flop about you and through you ever moment of your life? You see the creatures that form what men call the pure air and the blue sky? Have I not succeeded in breaking down the barrier; have I not shown you worlds that no other living men have seen?

One can't write a weird story of real power without perfect psychological detachment from the human scene, and a magic prism of imagination which suffuses them and style alike with that grotesquerie and disquieting distortion characteristic of morbid vision. Only a cynic can create horror--for behind every masterpiece of the sort must reside a driving daemonic force that despises the human race and its illusions, and longs to pull them to pieces and mock them.

There are horrors beyond life's edge that we do not suspect, and once in a while man's evil prying calls them just within our range.

In my actual imaginative contact with life, I am vastly more responsive to beauty than to horror--indeed, I never experience real cosmic horror except in infrequent nightmares. However, when I come to record my various imaginative experiences, I generally find that only the horror items have any uniqueness or originality. Others have seen the same beautiful things that I have seen, & have sung them more nobly.

Most of my monsters fail altogether to satisfy my sense of the cosmic--the abnormally chromatic entity in "The Colour Out of Space" being the only one of the lot which I take any pride in.

It is in dreams that I have known the real clutch of stark, hideous, maddening, paralysing fear. My infant nightmares were classics, & in them there is not an abyss of agonising cosmic horror that I have not explored. I don't have such dreams now--but the memory of them will never leave me. It is undoubtedly from them that the darkest & most gruesome side of my fictional imagination is derived.

Something terrible came to the hills and valleys on that meteor, and something terrible -- though I know not in what proportion -- still remains.

The more man alienates himself from Nature, the more subjective, i.e., supranatural or antinatural, is his view of things, the greater the horror he has of Nature, or at least of those natural objects and processes which displease his imagination, which affect him disagreeably.