Best 755 quotes in «monsters quotes» category

Does the troll know he's got his head on back to front?

Do not be so ridiculous, I can more easily find you someone else.” Gripping the bars of his prison so strongly that the bones of his knuckles showed prominently through his pale skin, the monster growled again, “I will have no other.” Nearing the end of his patience, Klaus demanded, “Why? Why are you being so impossible?” Turning to the diminutive creature beneath the blanket, he smiled nastily, his light red eyes gleaming, “Because he wants her.

DO NOT FOLLOW ME. THIS VACATION SUCKS TOO HARD TO STAY. I’M GOING HOME TO RELAX. Sincerely, the SINGLE gypsy girl who can think for herself P.S. I’LL KEY YOUR FUCKING CARS if you come looking for me before I’m ready to deal with you again.

Do you think your sin will disappear if you lie?

-Dream up something wild and improbable. Something beautiful and full of monsters. -Beautiful and full of monsters? -All the best stories are.

Every ghost has a story. Monsters are nothing without mythology.

Even monsters are beautiful.

Even monsters need to rest between monstrosities.

Even monsters seek companionship. Or an audience, anyway.

Every monster could be saved.

Everywhere that we looked, were objects & artifacts reminiscent of a bygone age. of war & destruction, of mankind's determination to rule his neighbour, to prove how mighty he and his people are, yet a romance of days past that I am drawn to like a soul lost and hearing his lovers cries to him

Everything is worse...if you think something is looking at you.

Face your monster boldly, the whole world will cheer you on. Run from your monster fearfully, Heaven will cry over your pieces.

Fear is a prison in which we place ourselves. You need only to press against the bars to realize that the door is always unlocked, and you are always free to leave.

Finally I find it, the book, but as I’m pulling it out of the stack I hear a noise coming from my toy room. It sounds like scratching or scraping maybe and my mind instantly goes to the possibility that maybe it’s a monster or a dragon or something else with claws. My hand shakes a little as I stand up and turn back toward the room. When I step into it, I feel the wind hit my cheeks. I shine the light around and notice one of the windows is open. I don’t understand why. I didn’t open it and I don’t think it was open when I came down here. What if it was a monster? I sweep the flashlight around the room at all my toys as I start back toward the corner. Then the light lands on something tall… I hear voices. Ones that don’t sound like they belong to a monster, but just people. But that’s what they end up being. Terrible, horrible monsters.

Fighting external monsters is easy in comparison to how we fight those within us.

*For eleven years, I've been worked over and abused in ways you can't imagine by things you don't want to know about. I've killed every kind of vile, black-souled, dead-eyed nightmare that ever made you piss your pjs and cry for mommy in the middle of the night. I kill monsters and, if I wanted, I could say a word and burn you to powder from the inside out. I can tear any human you ever met to rages with my bare hands. Give me one good reason why I could possibly need you? *She looks straight at me, not blinking. No fear in her eyes. *Because you might be the Tasmanian Devil and the Angel of Death all rolled into one, but you don't even know how to get a phone. *I hate to admit it, but she has a point.

First, you’d discover that the monster was not real. You’d realize that it was just an illusion that you never had anything to fear in the first place. You’d see that the monster had no teeth. This would be an incredible triumph.

From here on," Kanin said, "you will have to decide what kind of demon you will be. Not all meals will come to you so easily, ignorant and seeking to do you harm. What will you do if your prey invites you inside, offers you a place at the table? What will you do if they flee, or cower down, begging you not to hurt them? How you stalk your prey is something you must come to terms with, or you will quickly drive yourself mad. And once you cross that threshold, there is no coming back from it.

Full bellies breed gentle manners. The pinch of famine makes monsters.

God didn't create monsters. Monsters created themselves.

God creates monsters. Women encourage them." "That sounds like a tract by Nancy O'Brien. Although I agree. Men are pigs." "Natalie, darling, sometimes so are women.

Hän piirsi ensimmäisen hirviön hirviön leuat jäykät ja metalliset ja niiden välissä kieli värähteli tätä hirviötä oli mahdollista soittaa Hän piirsi toisen hirviön sen silmät ja suu olivat väärissä paikoissa, silmät kämmenissä ja suu rintakehässä. Oli mahdotonta auttaa sen silmät oikeille paikoilleen sillä se söi suuhunsa auttajan. Se oli torjuva. Hän piirsi kolmannen hirviön ja hänen kynänsä pysähtyi. Hän nousi ja käveli puoliympyrän, sitten takaisin samaa reittiä, hän oli jaloillaan piirtänyt hirviön verkkokalvon. Niin suuri oli hirviön silmä. Hirviö oli omassa näkökentässään ja kaikkeus jäi sen näkökentän ulkopuolelle Hän ahtoi kaikkeuden rakettiinsa ja kiihdytti sen valon nopeuteen ja siirtyi itse ajassa. Hän söi hirviön kämmeneltä. Hirviö söi hänen kämmeneltään.

Good luck to you," he said, and she remembered how he had looked at her as she pinned Yah Tayyib, as if she was some kind of monster. Maybe she was.

Good luck getting staffed up during Ragnarök.

He fought to destroy those monsters, yet found they never seemed to die—rising anew every dawn.

He had found his monsters, and now was the time to leave them behind.

He had become a moster, happily, for just a moment of having his head above water.

He had hundreds of monsters inside him wearing his face as a mask. Screaming and trying to tear him apart and take his place. He always fought furiously to hold them back and it created an unending chaos inside him. Eventually, in the end, he lost all his strength and battles. He was dragged down into the abyss. He cried and fought hard to find his way back home. To get out from there again and to be himself. But among all these masks, the real he was lost forever. He never made it back again, and he was not himself anymore.

He knelt among the shadows and felt his isolation bitterly. They were savages it was true; but they were human.

He is a demon, Clarissa,” said Valentine, still in the same soft voice. “A demon with a man’s face. I know how deceptive such monsters can be. Remember, I spared him once myself.” “Monster?” echoed Clary. She thought of Luke, Luke pushing her on the swings when she was five years old, higher, always higher; Luke at her graduation from middle school, camera clicking away like a proud father’s; Luke sorting through each box of books as it arrived at his store, looking for anything she might like and putting it aside. Luke lifting her up to pull apples down from the trees near his farmhouse. Luke, whose place as her father this man was trying to take. “Luke isn’t a monster,” she said in a voice that matched Valentine’s, steel for steel. “Or a murderer. You are.” “Clary!” It was Jace. Clary ignored him. Her eyes were fixed on her father’s cold black ones. “You murdered your wife’s parents, not in battle but in cold blood,” she said. “And I bet you murdered Michael Wayland and his little boy, too. Threw their bones in with my grandparents’ so that my mother would think you and Jace were dead. Put your necklace around Michael Wayland’s neck before you burned him so everyone would think those bones were yours. After all your talk about the untainted blood of the Clave — you didn’t care at all about their blood or their innocence when you killed them, did you? Slaughtering old people and children in cold blood, that’s monstrous.

He leaned towards me, and I did what any reasonable person would do when facing imminent death by being eaten alive. I screamed.

He looks like the bloke next door, was Sparks's first thought. But then, monsters rarely look the part. You hope you'll be able to see the evil shining out of them. It would make police work a damn sight easier, he often said. But evil was a slippery substance, glimpsed only occasionally, and all the more horrifying for that, he knew.

He looks at Mr. Vacanti and the man looks back at him with somehow gentle eyes. It surprises David to see the man has gentle eyes. It surprises him, even at thirty-seven, to discover that monsters can have gentle eyes. Something is terribly wrong with a world where monsters are allowed to have gentle eyes.

Her nausea increased, the dialect had become unfamiliar, the way our wet throats bathed the words in the liquid of saliva was intolerable. A sense of repulsion had invested all the bodies in movement, their bone structure, the frenzy that shook them. How poorly made we are, she thought, how insufficient. The broad shoulders, the arms, the legs, the ears, noses, eyes, seemed to her attributes of monstrous beings who had fallen from some corner of the black sky.

Here there was no monster greater than the ragged mountains.

Hermes made it sound pretty ridiculous—hordes of monsters going up in the elevator twenty at a time, listening to “Stayin’ Alive.

Her stories were made of badass women teasing monsters and running wild with dragons.

He was colossal (apparently they felt behemoth was easier to spell).

He thought of the deep crevasses and windy caves of Underlay, and the stories of the creatures that dwelt there. Of course, he didn’t believe in them. He’d told them, because the handing on of an oral mythology was very important to a developing culture, but he didn’t believe in supernatural monsters. He shivered. He hoped they didn’t believe in him.

He stands alone in hollow gloom, with the sound of his own breath whispering down unseen passages ahead and behind and to both sides, wondering how he stumbled into this blackest of all labyrinths. He entered by choice. We all do. Whether we are mapping the heavens or skulking the lanes of the underworld, whether we are hunting the imprisoned fiend or have ourselves become the monster, whether we are searching for what is lost or hiding what must never be found, we all round that first corner by choice - and by then, we are lost. You too. You must decide what is false and what is true, and what is true for me but not for you. We are wandering the mazes, all of us, and we cannot hope to escape until we learn to tell between what is real and what is real for someone else. There lies the madness, and the truth as well.

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” (Friedrich Nietzsche)

I am a monster because I have too much of something.

Hiding from the monsters only made them stronger.

How different this world to the one about which I used to read, and in which I used to live! This is one peopled by demons, phantoms, vampires, ghouls, boggarts, and nixies. Names of things of which I knew nothing are now so familiar that the creatures themselves appear to have real existence. The Arabian Nights are not more fantastic than our gospels; and Lempriere would have found ours a more marvelous world to catalog than the classical mythical to which he devoted his learning. Ours is a world of luprachaun and clurichaune, deev and cloolie, and through the maze of mystery I have to thread my painful way, now learning how to distinguish oufe from pooka, and nis from pixy; study long screeds upon the doings of effreets and dwergers, or decipher the dwaul of delirious monks who have made homunculi from refuse. Waking or sleeping, the image of some uncouth form is always present to me. What would I not give for a volume by the once despised 'A. L. O. E' or prosy Emma Worboise? Talk of the troubles of Winifred Bertram or Jane Eyre, what are they to mine? Talented authoresses do not seem to know that however terrible it may be to have as a neighbour a mad woman in a tower, it is much worse to have to live in a kitchen with a crocodile. This elementary fact has escaped the notice of writers of fiction; the re-statement of it has induced me to reconsider my decision as to the most longed-for book; my choice now is the Swiss Family Robinson. In it I have no doubt I should find how to make even the crocodile useful, or how to kill it, which would be still better. ("Mysterious Maisie")

Humans and their wars. You call me monster, , but look what you've gone and done to one another! Good riddance to you now and, if I'm lucky, forever. Have your war. I'll have my radish stew.

Human beings are no damn good,” he said. “We are even worse than animals. We like ...” He trailed off, cleared his throat, but his voice hardly reached a whisper. “We like monsters,” he said.

I can smell your blood now. I can smell it in every room of the house.

Iapetus shall crush you!” one shouted. “Who?” I asked. Then I ran her through with my sword. Note to self: If you vaporize monsters, they can’t answer your questions.

I cannot be assured of exactly what I created be it madness and monster or beauty and light.