Best 755 quotes in «monsters quotes» category

If there are ten thousand medieval peasants who create vampires by believing them real, there may be one–probably a child–who will imagine the stake necessary to kill it. But a stake is only stupid wood; the mind is the mallet which drives it home.

If there really are such creatures in here, it would be the discovery of a lifetime.’ 'If there really are such creatures in here,’ Sally countered, 'your lifetime might be very short.

If they want a monster so badly they ought to be provided by one.

I have lain long here in your mind, longer than any nightmare has before me. I have sunk my roots into your worst imaginings and feasted on your memories. I know you, child.

I had managed to scare even the monsters, and when you can scare monsters, you can be sure you've become one yourself.

I have learned it’s best to face down the trouble. Otherwise it will grow into a monster. We don’t have time for monsters.

I just wonder… Isn’t it better to start as a monster and become a hero? Isn’t that what creates belief? The idea that someone can change?

I’m afraid they’re not coming.” Abby said fearfully. “Our parents, our teachers – everyone! They’ve disappeared. That’s it. Lights out, Shelly. We’re on our own.

I know.” His hand ran across the floor, making shapes in the nonexistent dust. “Have you ever seen those shows starring serial-killer main characters? Dexter? Hannibal? Some of those sexy vampire ones the mafia funds to lure victims to them? They make all sorts of excuses for the serial killers. ‘It’s okay, he’s killing bad guys.’ ‘It’s okay, because it happened offscreen.’ I hate those. I hate when people do that to me. When they try to make me sympathetic, moralize all the decisions that aren’t moral.

I'll investigate, but I've still got to be cautious, because a monster in one's lap isn't always a good thing.

I'm a little monster. Cuddling is my specail attack. #cuddlemonster

I knew that monsters were far more gentle and more desirable than the monsters living inside ‘nice people.’ Accepting that you are a monster gives you the leeway to not behave like one. When you deny being a monster, you behave like one.

I'm a little monster. Cuddling is my special attack. #cuddlemonster

I'm an invisible monster. I'm incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse.

In a weird, twisted way, Nita almost felt like Kovit’s and her stories were opposite facets on the same diamond. Different, sure, but similar in some fundamental ways. It made Nita feel . . . weird. Squiggly, not-quite empathy, but sort of fear-empathy . . . something. Nita couldn’t put it into words.

I might be capable of making figures that have heart, conscience, passion, emotion and decency. But there's no call for that at all in the world. People are only interested in monsters and freaks, so I give them their monsters. Monsters are what they want!

I mean, you make it sound like I’m the yeti or something.", Celestra Caine from FADE by Kailin Gow

I'm going to be a fairy.” Sarah announced, studying her file. "What a surprise.” Nicole mumbled, closing the door.

I’m not sure we’re quite the monsters you want us to be.

I pictured love as a big hairy giant with a dead fish in his mouth. Grizzly bear claws and his heart half out of his chest cause it’s too big and the lungs have to fit. He never stops walking. Over mountains. Through the desert. On top of icy lakes. Past huge cities. And he hunts and kills for you and always comes back with plenty to eat.

I pass the torch to the monster, the beast, the phantasm, #RedButtons who lurks behind the eyes of the pedophile priest. You just continue raping the children. Softening their flesh with fear. I'll stop by once in a while. See if, I don't know, they are tired of "IT" and want to come with me, where they'll make a delicious addition to my carpet of bones.

The monster is bigger than the human. It represents abundance—overabundance. ... It has lots of eyes, extra arms, too many teeth. Everything about it is too many and too much.

Remember that, Crowe. Monsters walk on two legs, and they're crafty. They're real good at fooling even the smartest of men. Don't forget that. Because sometimes, you don't realize monsters are stalking you until it's too late. It's far better to be smart, to be safe, and to watch for monsters in everyone you know." "Even Logan and Rafe?" he whispered, suddenly wondering if somehow his cousin were monsters. He couldn't hurt his little cousins. He'd promised Dad he'd always watch out for them, and for his baby sister. What was he supposed to do if one of them was a monster? His father gave him on of those small, man-to-man smiles Crowe always tried to get. "Well, maybe not Logan and Rafe," his father amended. "It's hard to imagine a Callahan as a monster, don't you think?" Crowe nodded quickly. "They're just dumb kids sometimes," he sighed. "But I make sure to tell them when they're dumb so they'll get smart.

I repeat: there is no place for monsters in civilized society. If such creatures roam the earth, they do so out on its uttermost rim, consigned to peripheries by conventions of disbelief...but once in a blue moon something goes wrong. A Beast is born, a 'wrong miracle', within the citadels of propriety and decorum.

I suppose even monsters can be afraid of the dark.

I think about the way Baz teased me earlier, how he wanted to know what it felt like to have someone who would do anything for me. Maybe it sounds comforting to know there is a person out there who would risk his life to protect you—a person who would back off when you asked and then come to you when you changed your mind. Especially when that person is as kind and decent as Jesse. The truth is, it’s terrifying. It’s just one more opportunity for me to be a monster.

They are monsters, Malorie thinks. But she knows they are more than this. They are infinity.

It occurred to Raule that all children were monsters in the world and were instinctively aware of it. They were reminded of their anomalous nature by adults, whom they failed to resemble, and with whose habitations and tools their bodies were at odds. This was surely why the little girl played with the sequins so solemnly and with such intense concentration. She was doing nothing less than conjuring, out of pattern and colour, a world that conformed to her desires and obeyed her will. The boy, on the other hand, showed with the whole attitude of his being that he knew there was only the one world and he would kill it if he could.

It is less appealing, but morally more urgent, to understand the actions of the perpetrators. The moral danger, after all, is never that one might become a victim but that one might be a perpetrator or a bystander. It is tempting to say that a Nazi murderer is beyond the pale of understanding. ...Yet to deny a human being his human character is to render ethics impossible. To yield to this temptation, to find other people inhuman, is to take a step toward, not away from, the Nazi position. To find other people incomprehensible is to abandon the search for understanding, and thus to abandon history.

It is healthy and wise to believe there exist goodness in humans, it is equally healthy and wise to realize there are monsters in the world pretending to be humans, and these monsters have pretended for so long, they actually believe they are human. Some times it is difficult to distinguish the difference.

It proved what the Vicar said, that there really was a devil lurking in the shadows in the dark recesses of the human mind, a monster preying on the defenceless, the old and the young, small boys and old ladies, the raving lunatics turned onto the streets for some care in the community. It really was shocking, as though the world was going mad, people turning in on themselves and falling prey to wicked thoughts.

It"s easier to believe there's a monster under the bed if you've spent the last six months arguing with a monster.

It’s no big deal. It’s kind of like a tattoo. It won’t hurt, not too much, just a few stitches and it’ll be all over. It’s really interesting how it’s done. You won’t believe where your soul hides. Go on, take a guess. Where do you think it is?

It's great if you're all rainbows and sunshine, but it's also great if you need seem darkness, metal, vampires, and monsters and the like in your life too.

It’s really kind of… well, beautiful, in a way. Even the monsters, once you get to know ‘em. We’re all beautiful.

It was moon hour when the burning lovers tired, and encased themselves beneath each other’s warmth. Their lips spoke of forbidden promises and butchered daydreams, yearning for the sun and days, and nights stuck in a cage made for monsters.

It was not accustomed to being summoned.

It was one thing to deal with monsters that were human in appearance. Another thing entirely to deal with humans who were monsters.

It wasn't the darkness that killed people. It was the people who carried the darkness within them that did.

It was like some mad scientist threw a bunch of DNA into a blender and this is what came out. What the heck could it be? Was it some kind of alien? A scientific experiment gone horribly wrong? Did we have a Dr. Frankenstein living in Billings? Seriously, the creature looked like a resurrected Wookiee made from spare parts.

It was possible, I saw now, to be a grotesque, to be huge and free, to wander the streets in utter freedom despite your atrocity, as long as you did it when everybody else was sealed inside their little lit boxes. Now it made sense – why monsters came out at night.

It was the perfect set. Theseus gave a great war cry and brought his sword arcing up toward Sheba’s throat - but the monster of the labyrinth lives inside us all. She is the dark, devouring hunger that is never sated, the creeping shadow that ever plays the fiend to our seraphim, the secret rage hidden in our hearts; deny her, and we become her slaves; fight her, and we make her invincible. By now, you must know that no monster can ever be killed, not really - […]

I've made him a monster by overloving. Lord knows, if hatred could make him human again.

I welcome monsters into my bed and set a place for them at breakfast, leave sugar out for their coffee goddamn I’ve always been so good at loving monsters

I warned myself against the danger of compassion in this case. How easy it would be to imagine the traumas of childhood that might have deformed her into the moral monster she had become, and then to convince myself that those traumas could be balanced - and their effects reversed - by sufficient acts of kindness.

I will have thee, as our rarer monsters are, painted upon a pole,and underwrit: "Here you may see the tyrant, Macbeth

Listen,' someone whispers into my ear. 'Listen to me.' Am I dead? 'Listen,' the voice whispers. 'In some countries, you kill a monster when it's born. Other places, you kill it only when it kills someone else. Other places, you let it go, out into the forest or the sea, and it lives there forever, calling for others of its kind. Listen to me, it cries. Maybe it's just alone.

Look, I’ll tell you what I do, but you won’t believe me.” … “Given that I just found you bound and gagged, my mind is somewhat more receptive than it might normally be.” “Well then, here’s the deal,” Krystal said as she sat down next to me. “Everything you think you know about monsters is a lie. Ghouls, ghosts, werewolves and more are real and hiding out behind the scenes in our world. Officially, they are known as parahumans.

Long ago there was a little boy who lived in the wood with his father and his sister. One night, the three of them were out collecting firewood when they heard a low, delicate whimper. The father realised it was an injured animal and ordered the children to fetch water from the lake, whilst he followed the sound. Hours past but the father did not return. The children became fearful for their father’s safety and in their moment of fright, they disobeyed their father in order to find him. And find him they did. However, he was no longer the man he once was. Both his eyes were slit through their centre, oozing blood down the paleness of his face. His neck had been torn open. The entirety of his midsection was split but nothing, not one, single organ, seemed to be left within. Each limb still remained, however they had been dragged, with some exceptional force, in the opposite direction to which they were designed. The children screamed and ran, though the image of their father’s mangled corpse seemed to chase after them. They slept. Within the whisper of the wind came the sweet tune of a woman’s song. The little girl awoke to the feeling of happiness, security and motherly love that the song carried with it. She needed to find the woman it had come from. Leaving her brother, she took off into the wood to try and find the singer. The little boy quickly entered into a spit of panic when he found his sister missing. He didn’t know whether he should call out for her, look for her or wait. But waiting could mean the worst, he thought, and so he took off into the woods after her. He had searched everywhere, every dark corner and decrepit tree, before reaching the lake. The moon reflected off its black surface, which drew his attention to something bobbing within the ripples. It was a leg. When he caught sight of the foot, the boy fell to his knees. He recognised the shoe. It was his sister’s shoe; his sister’s leg. Soon enough, the other body parts came drifting to join the leg, forming a rough manifestation of what was once his sister’s living body. Firstly, there was a head facing down in the water, then arms seemingly blue under the moonlight, and lastly a torso coated in her favourite dress. He felt sick, lost, terrified to his very core. Just as thoughts of never being whole again began to pain his chest, the boy heard the snapping of a twig behind him. He dared to turn around but all he found was a small, black-furred wolf. The wolf approached him timidly, whining deep in its throat to say to the boy that he too was lonely and afraid. The boy put out his hand for the wolf to join him and they sat together. Perhaps he would be OK. Perhaps all that had happened had led to this; something new. He rustled the fur of his new friend, starting with its back then its ear before going under its snout. His hand touched something wet and sticky. He drew it from the wolf to get a better look, only to find a crimson substance now clinging to his small hands. Blood. The wolf turned on the boy as its eyes became a pale blue before thwack! He tore the boy’s face from his head…

Losing maturity in one’s fiction for the sake of marvels and monsters can also mean losing propriety, and that’s not always a bad thing.