Best 14 quotes of James Herbert on MyQuotes

Drip, drip, the rain comes falling, Rain in the woods, rain on the sea; Even the little waves, beaten, come crawling As if to find shelter here with me.

For me, a good friend is someone you might only see once or twice a year but each time it feels as though you've just seen them last week.

I grew up in the East End of London, the youngest of three boys in a Catholic household. Both my parents were market traders and worked seven days a week.

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

I have a dread of sounding pretentious and try not to talk too much about what I do.

I never plan my novels because if I know what is going to happen, it bores me rigid. I let the story tell itself.

I've always loved comic books. As a kid, I used to read cowboy stories and historical comics about other worlds, unknown places that would take me out of myself and which helped to develop my imagination.

I've always suffered from being labelled a horror writer - just because I didn't go to university, just because I still talk in my natural voice, just because I'm not as articulate as Martin Amis.

Never underestimate the hypocrisy of politicians.

He died. And waited.

I moved fast and had Victoria's head between my jaws before she had a chance to dodge. We spun around in the kitchen, the mouse's head in the cat's mouth, and the cat's head in mine.

I've talked with, eaten with, and played with so many different species my head aches trying to remember them all. I've been amazed at and chuckled over the neuroses in the animal world: I've met a pig who thought he was a horse; a cow who stuttered; a bull who was bullied by a shrew he shared a field with; a duckling who thought he was ugly (and he was); a goat who thought he was Jesus; a woodpigeon who was afraid of flying (he preferred to walk everywhere); a toad who could croak Shakespeare sonnets (and little else); an adder who kept trying to stand up; a fox who was vegetarian; and a grouse who never stopped.

My emotions were fast becoming those of a dog, as though, now my search was over, a ghost had been vanquished. The ghost was my humanness. I felt free, free as any bird in the sky. Free to live as a dog. I ran for nearly a day and, when I finally dropped, the last remnants of my old self had been purged.

The photographer was lost for riposte, obvious though it should have been; instead he turned to run. At least his mind did. In fact, his mind had already scooted down the Broad Walk and was clambering over the railings at the end, whereas his body had remained rooted to the spot. With some effort he looked down at his feet as if to reprimand them. They refused to take notice.