Best 30 quotes in «jack the ripper quotes» category

For anyone, man or woman to desire me, it is absurd! I am nothing but a gargoyle filled with the blood of others.

The public is entitled to know whether or not I am married to Jack The Ripper.

Creatures, like myself, have voices that are laced with impending peril, and yet, each and every time they succeed in hypnotising another victim.

Her blood. Gushing out, it darkens her lovely hair until each strand is as heavy as the shadows of my mind.

I am a practitioner of the science of deduction, of using the known facts in a case to unveil the unknown.’ - Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and the Whitechapel Murders

He was distracted by a brief surge of adrenaline as he remembered the girl’s blood-soaked body. Flesh separated and puckered, he had left her in such a manner that her sacrification would be remembered. The recollection aroused him. Death and sensuality combined to create a unique vision of purity and abhorrence. Though he had experienced doubts since beginning, he knew the mission he had been tasked with was necessary. It had given him a purity of purpose. These women needed to be punished, all in her name. And yet he felt guilt. Not enough to consume him, but enough to have it niggling away in the back of his mind like a parasite infecting his very soul. May God forgive me for the deeds I committed on Kelly, no heart no heart.

How come they get to be gray-haired and still in love with each other, while Lilly tears out what's left of my heart and dumps it into her Jill-The-Ripper shredder?

I ignore him and continue walking. I ignore the light drizzle that falls from the smog-filled sky and I ignore the mass of men who stand outside the public-house attempting to light their pipes with matchsticks that burn out as fast as they are struck alight. I ignore their thunderous cackles and cajoling as one of their friends gets sick on another's boots and I ignore my pseudo-name as my mentor yells it behind me.

It is me. He knows it. The dollymop knows it. I know it. I am the problem. Soon I will be discovered and destroyed. I am in constant danger and yet, I am the danger...

I swivel my back to her, my eyes gluttonous and eager to get their fill of this intimate piece of what has come to be her puzzle.

It's not dystopia to think history will repeat itself.

I was in a delirium of destruction, as if the body were an insult to the philosophy of my life, and only in destroying it could I reclaim my sanity.

It was a myth, a fantastical portrayal of my mentor himself, his legend forever anchoring itself to history in a way mine will never be. Spring Heeled Jack, the boogeyman with eyes like fireballs who could jump unnaturally high. Breathing blue flames he'd ravage women with his claws.

London, noisy, noisome, nattering London: aged, ageless, dignified, eccentric in her ways - seat of empire, capital of all the world; that indomitable grey lady of drab aspect but sparkling personality - was at her very, very best and most radiant. And Holmes, ebullient and uncommonly chatty, was in a mood to match.

My companion first explained my curse to me on the night we chanced to meet, spinning delicious words into prose that ignited a desire within my soul. Words that left me with a yearning to devour every taboo known to man.

My book is extremely graphic. I make no apologies for it. But it is graphic only because I told the truth about what the Ripper did to his victims.

My mind is blank. Yet, one word rides the Ferris wheel of my psyche, whirling around and leaving me dizzy - monster. It is unavoidable. I am a monster.

Lending my voice to a dedicated readership is a match made in heaven.

No murderer had before or has since caused such a sensation, passed so quickly into folklore or gained an image – top hat, cape and Gladstone bag – that is truly iconic: as instantly recognisable as Sherlock Holmes's deerstalker and meerschaum pipe, and as capable of conveying a meaning understood around the world – even by people who know nothing about the Ripper or what he did, or that he, unlike Holmes, actually existed.

None of us like each other, but one thing is for sure, we all hate you.

The air you're breathing right now is also the same air that once circulated through the respiratory system of Jesus over 2000 years ago, which probably makes you feel a bit spiritual, doesn’t it? But unfortunately you’re also breathing the same air that once circulated through the body of Jack the Ripper, which probably makes you feel a bit shit

Like a kelpie the sunlight feigns innocence until it meets my skin, transforming into a sharp-toothed monster that tears away at my cold dead flesh.

My mind… It is a delicate veil, torn by genetics, made worse by my maker thinking his curse could mend me.

The wind picks up as if to match his mood, it twists my coat so that for a moment it resembles a saw-toothed cape flying out behind me. All I need now is a garish top hat and they can call me Count Dracula.

The city reeked of death, and the savages that resided within its imposing starkness existed in fear of their lives. They had been shocked by the recent bloody Whitechapel murders, as if starvation, disease, moral degradation, and perpetual smog drowning all color in gray wasn’t enough to bring home the pathetic reality of their miserable existence. The police were no nearer to capturing the monster that lurked in the crevices, and London seemed stiller in the dark, the streets devoid of hope.

The coppers, thinking I must be hacked to bits at the bottom of the Thames, now blame both murders on the Ripper. The theory is so ironic I cannot help but snort out a tirade of titters.

The remaining half of my gin stands before me, and yet, no amount of drink can quench this thirst.

This world disappoints you, does it not?” Quinn asked. “Your crusade was intended to create something exceptional, exquisite even. But you have become lost amongst your own desires, my friend. What you are doing no longer falls under the rubric of surgery… you work in darker hues. Kelly must be the last. Any more and the East End of London will explode. We already have Lusk and his Vigilante Committee roaming the streets, accosting every fletcher, leather apron and anyone trading with a knife. Warren is poised to retire, people are afraid. What you have accomplished cannot be understated. We have large plans for this city and our vision of social reform has been led by you… you should be proud. But the increased enthusiasm for your work threatens to undermine those plans. You are upsetting the status quo, for want of a better word.

Electing Sudan to the UN body mandated to promote and protect human rights worldwide is like putting Jack the Ripper in charge of a women's shelter.

What really stuck in Alf’s craw, was the clock mender. That hor-uddy-olo-gist detective. He was a good man. A quiet man. But then it’s the quiet ones you have to watch!