Quotes About Horror

Murder had a blood red door on the other side of which was everything unimaginable to everyone.

At fourteen my sister sailed away from me into a place I'd never been. In the walls of my sex there was horror and blood, in the walls of hers there were windows.

And as Flora twirled, other girls and women came through the field in all directions. Our heartache poured into one another like water from cup to cup. Each time I told my story, I lost a bit, the smallest drop of pain. It was that day that I knew I wanted to tell the story of my family. Because horror on earth is real and it is every day. It is like a flower or like the sun; it cannot be contained.

For three nights he hadn't known how to touch my mother or what to say. Before, they had never found themselves broken together. Usually, it was one needing the other but not both needing each other, and so there had been a way, by touching, to borrow the stronger one's strength. And they had never understood, as they did now, what the word horror meant. ~pgs 20-21

Horror on Earth is real and it is every day. It is like a flower or like the sun; it cannot be contained.

Because horror on Earth is real and it is everyday. It is like a flower or the sun; it cannot be contained.

In the walls of my sex there was horror and blood, in the walls of hers there were windows.

Porque el horror de la Tierra es real y cotidiano. Es como una flor o como el sol; no puede contenerse.

learned from them that he couldn't wait for Fanny to share, "we survived living in New York. Fight with me," he said. "Scream. You have nice big teeth; bite me." Fanny's lovely mouth was shaping the words, in horror, "Bite me?" "But don't just go off inside yourself and assume

How Horrid has a slightly facetious tone that strikes me as Wildean. It appears to embrace the actual horror--puberty, public disgrace--then at the last second nimbly sidesteps it, laughing.

Or maybe he had gotten too inured to death, and was hoping to elicit from me an expression of the natural horror he was no longer capable of...I have made use of this technique myself, however, this attempts to access emotions vicariously...eager to detect in my listener that flinch of grief that eluded me.

Tudor historians were fond of reminding their readers of the horrors of the Wars of the Roses, recounting how the realm had been plunged into the vicious civil war over a disputed crown that lasted more than thirty years.

with my fucking suave manners and knowitall, eyes, and mind full of fantasy - the Me! that horror that keeps me conscious, in this Hell of Birth & Death

Banks burn, boys die bullet-eyed, mothers scream realization the vast tonnage of napalm

He wrote with terrible rapidity, the twig in his fingers rilling blood without renewal; but in the middle of a sentence his hands denied their service to his will, his arms fell to his sides, the book to the earth; and powerless to move or cry out, he found himself staring into the sharply drawn face and blank, dead eyes of his own mother, standing white and silent in the garments of the grave!

The girl's pretty little-girl face had deformed, lips stretching wide, becoming like the mouth of a flukeworm, a ragged pink hole encircled with teeth going all the way down her gullet. Her tongue was black, and her breath stank of old meat.

The people who had witnessed the mushroom cloud rising from Hiroshima could've felt no less.

These, and many of the other best-known legends of the Rosebud, are false…the ghost stories of people who have seen too many horror movies and who think they know exactly how a ghost story should be.

Horror was rooted in sympathy, after all, in understanding what it would be like to suffer the worst.

Die Todten reiten schnell. (For the dead travel fast.) —"LENORE," GOTTFRIED BÜRGER

every fictional world was a work of fantasy, and whenever writers introduce a threat or a conflict into their story, they create the possibility of horror. He had been drawn to horror fiction, he said, because it took the most basic elements of literature and pushed them to their extremes. All fiction was make-believe, which made fantasy more valid (and honest) than realism. He

What he felt was something larger than fear, a narcotic terror that numbed him completely, made it impossible to imagine moving.

She was completely soaked in blood. Her hair swung in red tangles around her shoulders, and her face was a gleaming mask, her eyes like hard diamonds. I am Death.

I have nightmares about it now. I probably will for months. And I think …" She shook her head. "… what if it isn't over? What if the Sickness that Darth Scabrous created … got out somehow?