Best 1001 quotes in «thriller quotes» category

When a group of people are forced to navigate a minefield together, everyone feels a grudging sense of comfort when someone else gets blown up. Though there may be other unseen landmines left in the ground, each death creates a safe spot. A landmine cannot explode twice in the same place. Sure, the explosion robs the survivors of a comrade. Still, each death makes everyone’s next step marginally safer. So everyone keeps walking with grief on their faces, and relief in their hearts. Their own deaths are further postponed by the end of another life.

When dancing with a pit bull, it's always best to let him lead.

Whenever Elliot Norther’s wife was nervous she baked. With the murder of Harriet Mason, her husband’s close colleague at the Faculty, she had been unable to resist a couple of Victoria sponges. During the frenzied press speculation about the identity of the murderer, a Dundee cake had appeared, followed swiftly by a Battenberg and a Lemon Drizzle. Since news of the Wildencrust murder broke, the kitchen, dining room and study had come to resemble the storerooms of an industrial bakery, every surface heaving with the weight of sponge and cream. Yesterday, having at last been overwhelmed by the fear and rumour that swept the town, she had taken herself off to her mother’s house in Hampstead, leaving her husband to soldier on alone. When he had last seen his wife, Elliot Norther noticed that she had been putting the finishing touches to an impressive, triple-tiered wedding cake, beating a batch of royal icing into a sickly paste.

When has any part of this ever been safe? “Let’s just get on with it.”, FADE by Kailin Gow

When he unleashes on her everything falls together. Like a crick in the neck snapped into place, the boy's brain pops and is put right. It is a beautiful undoing, a beautiful becoming. He doesn't stop to think about it when the punches follow her down to the ground. He doesn't stop to notice when she goes still or when the pool of blood under her head pillows out into a great, liquid heart. He doesn't stop until he's pulled off her and he doesn't start to think again until that night, when he's back at home. For hours and hours his brain stays beautifully popped into place.

When I first studied the photographs I could not tell what she looked like or even the color of her hair. All I saw was red.

When I lifted up the skin, a fat kidney worm dripping with gore raised its bald, blind head and glared at me.

When I was eight years old, I was abducted from a fast food restaurant by a man who took me, in all likelihood, because of a small splotch of mayonnaise on his hamburger. And so I believe in neither free will nor predetermination. I believe in condiments.

When John-Joseph Heller's fights became too much of a sure thing, story has it he moved on to more risky fights with grown men and even starved dogs. Though he was scarred often, he was never beaten. But as he brought each opponent to his knees, John-Joseph Heller was also growing up and his vision began to extend further than the ring.

When she woke in the morning, there would be no glass on the floor. No comforter lying on the chair. Hawk Cahill, the cowboy hero to the rescue, would have been only a dream in the middle of her waking nightmare.

When she was living one of her fantasies she felt like a bird, the freedom of its wings letting her soar without earthly boundaries, enabling her to look on to her vividly imagined scenes from a great height.

When you give in to bullies, you don't just empower them, you encourage whatever methods they employ to achieve their ends; usually terror and violence. Meaning it's the innocent who pay; mourners at a funeral in Baghdad, a group of Coptic Christians on a beach in Libya, a group of defenseless school children in Pakistan. When we turn a blind eye to atrocities, we are complicit in them.

When you are in hell, stay awhile, you might just pick up an idea for a sequel...

When you have to kill the same terrorist twice in one week, then there's either something wrong with your skills or something wrong with your world. And there's nothing wrong with my skills.

When you go to sleep, where do you really go?

When you come to a detour, take it.

When you get the coffee from the store, does it come in a great big metal can?' He beamed. 'Absolutely.' That was all I needed to hear. "Tea. A cup of tea.

When you just have a torch and horror around you... then turn off the torch.

Which grave are we in?" she said. "The oldest." She felt Eddie's puzzlement. "That can't be possible. He looks like he was just buried." "There must be something at work in the chemistry of the island that's preserving his body. It's like the incorruptibles, bodies that weren't preserved in any special way that don't decay. Catholic saints like Bernadette and Padre Pio are said not to have decomposed even though they died a long, long time ago. Environmental factors can cause a kind of mummification." Jessica said, or thought, "This is bizarre. I'm getting a lesson on mummification while in the coffin of a dead man.

Where did you grow up?" He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Who says I've grown up?

When you turn a blind eye to atrocities, you are complicit in them.

Where I’m taking you, no one will ever find us. We’ll have all the time in the world for you to grow to love me as much as I love you.

...while the stony bones of the world tore past and the air grew dark and howling. The last thing he saw as the gulley became a torrent of dust and rock was the Jeep, plucked backwards into space.

While some monsters are born, others are created. But, the worst monsters are those who believe themselves to be heroes.

Whoever said dogs can't speak was never interested in learning another language.

Who gave you a gun?' 'The army.' 'Why?' 'That's what the army does, Simon.

Who is the real Claire Wright? The one sitting here, with her precious green card permit in front of her, exchanging pleasantries with the man who provided it? Or the one who fell for the darkness she sensed deep inside the only man she couldn’t seduce? Which is the performance: Who I was then? Or who I am now?

Who would want to be the prey in a world full of hunters? ~Disarming(Reign of Blood #2)

Whose Daddy's Little Girl Now?

Why be usual when you are unique? Why be average when you can be awesome? Why be ordinary when you are an original? You were born to be a THRILLER!

Why Are Terrorists into Piracy? Well, they are movie buffs too!

Why do I feel the longing to rub my palms on my jeans? That perverted guy didn’t touch me, yet I crave a shower. Instead, I go to the kitchen to wash my hands and drink some water. The acrid taste in my mouth will go away, as it always does, in a minute or so.

With this choice, I know that I am giving up my career and most of my so-called friends. But, this is something I must do. Finally, I am going to do the right thing for the right reasons and maybe save his life.

Why is the public so blindly self-destructive? So willing to enslave itself for a free trinket or empty promise?

Why would I want balls?

Woodhouse's father entered the room violently and without its consent. The rats scurried away from his work boots, and his flat cap was imbued with tweedy malevolence. His moustache bristled with ill intent and the only thing great about his coat was the quantity of fear that it inspired.

Wisdom Is The Principal Thing

Writing is a lifelong commitment that taxes every scribble, and only reimburses at the grave. A.W. Ryleigh Every daydream, every moment, every thought in preoccupation....write it. A.W. Ryleigh

Writing is a lifelong commitment that taxes every scribble, and reimburses only at the tombstone. (A.W. Ryleigh) Every dream, every thought, every moment of preoccupation....write it. (A.W. Ryleigh) Down deep beneath dark water, Sliding through the slippery abyss The giant dreams not of slaughter Nor sun's rays, nor wind's kiss (Cupid is Drunk- A.W. Ryleigh Something dismal was on the horizon. The people in the village had been sensing it, predicting something dark—something threatening. (PRETA, A.W. Ryleigh)

Worse than that, she was blaming me for Lisa’s death. Me? As if. She should be blaming Lisa. No, she should be thanking me—Lisa wore veils.

Writing is not always a writer's playtime. It's actually a work in progress. Few understand this and mistakenly believe we're wasting time. But it's never a waste of time when doing what you love.

Yeah, try wearing a piss cutter for eight years… then it wouldn’t be so bad.

Xavier was like some sort of sex drug that numbed my mind and clouded it. He made me stupid.

Yeah, there has to be a few screws loose when a girl asks you to drop everything to spend a three-day weekend on very short notice, and you say okey dokey without a care in the world.

Yeah, I get it. I'll be cool as a well digger's ass." He jumped when the front door slammed shut, the harsh bang echoing around the trees. Mitch shook his head. "That well digger must be working in a hot spring.

Yes, I am finally a match for Amy. The other morning I woke up next to her, and I studied the back of her skull. I tried to read her thoughts. For once I didn't feel like I was staring into the sun. I'm rising to my wife's level of madness. Because I can feel her changing me again: I was a callow boy, and then a man, good and bad. Now at last I'm the hero. I am the one to root for in the never-ending war story of our marriage. It's a story I can live with. Hell, at this point, I can't imagine my story without Amy. She is my forever antagonist. We are one long frightening climax.

Yep,” I said, rolling the body onto its back and staring into the horrified, bloated face, “you’re a single-bagger. My kinda gal.” I gave her a smile and a friendly wink. The face stared back at me with that same frozen look of terror. “Oh, stop being so dramatic,” I said, “You’ll be pretty again, I promise.

Yes, 1960’s North American sitcoms have led me to study the United States 1920’s and 1930’s crime bosses— QET Jenkins

Yes' Simon nodded. 'This would suggest that these patterns grow inside the batteries until a critical point is reached, when the shapes develop no further, and the phone ceases to function.

Yet if he had been asked… if he were happy… He would have admitted readily enough that he was uncomfortable, that he was cold, and badly fed, and venomous; that his clothes were in rags, and his feet and knees and elbows raw and bleeding through much walking and crawling; that he was in ever-present peril of life, and that he really did not expect to survive the adventure he was about to thrust himself into voluntarily, but all this had nothing to do with happiness: that was something he never stopped to think about.