Best 1001 quotes in «thriller quotes» category

I should know better than anyone--you can't tell who a person is just from his looks.

I stared, like always. A tree in the Petrified Forest. I looked down at my hands and feet and ordered them to move, only they wouldn’t.

I spend these days in confusion, trying my best to fathom the significance of that shade.... Trying to fathom the suitable answers to my ambiguities, if they can be called as such." - Basil

I started to drink heavily, comfortably caught in the tentacle-like clutches of alcohol.

Is this Jimmy Redstone?” the male voice at the other end of the line inquired. I couldn’t identify the voice. I didn’t recognize the number and the used car salesman tone didn’t do anything to reduce my annoyance at being interrupted during breakfast. “Who the hell you think would be answering his phone?” I snarled.

I strive to keep the space between the pages and the reader emotionally taut.

I stumble across the sea of tarmac, finding pavement, concealment and a brick wall. Palms brace against the scrubby surface. My stomach churns and then bubbles over, burning my throat as acrid yellow acid spills from my lips in frothy discomposure. It splatters the pavement like a spray of blood.

I studied his face, and as I did, I realized that he was studying me, our thoughts tangling in mid-air for a moment.

It doesn't cost anything to pay attention.

I tell you, Professor, growing up is a full contact sport. Somewhere in our brains, foolishness and naïveté join forces with a false sense of invincibility. Together, they score own-goals against their host’s interests. All this happens while that referee known as ‘reason’ is collapsed in a drunken stupor, unable to stop the madness. When he finally wakes up, all he can do is grant the useless penalty known as ‘hindsight’. But the outcome remains unchanged. The game is lost …

It had been more or less the same for Jilly. Except that she had her parents there to field any phone calls, to accept the flowers at the door and pick up the cards that dropped like tears through the letterbox. She sat before her dressing table mirror in bra and pants and let time drip away, watching a face she didn’t recognise and feeling raw emotions eat away at the drugs she was on. The emotions were gradually winning.

It happened as it always did, swallowing her swiftly and completely. Intense. Painful. Quick, vivid colors spun beneath her eyelids. Sounds were sharp inside her skull. Fire shot up through her bones. She may have been screaming and she wouldn’t have known. There was smoke in her nose, thick and black, and she couldn’t breathe. It stung her eyes and licked at her skin. Wood and metal crashed down as skin blistered and popped and she knew this wasn’t her, knew it was someone else, someone with a bigger body, bigger boots and darker jeans, and big ol’ hands with scars on the fingers. Men’s hands. Nails blunt and dirty with oil and grease and burning and- The cars were on fire. Paper burned and curled and rags ignited, the cement floor pockmarked by flash fires. Meat withered in her nose and she realized it was her. Him. Dancing embers blackened and burned bone. He screamed and she hoped she was not. He writhed and she really hoped she was not. He was dying, dead, and-

It had started to drizzle. The lamp poles cast a kaleidoscope of light dancing across the puddles in the road. The rain made Sam feel even more lost now, as if these shadowy events were invisible to the world. As if the night was cloaked in anonymity. This wasn’t a peaceful rain - it was a sad one. A drizzle, which wept for the inevitable. Sam knew even if she got Alison out of this alive, the cuts on their lives had already been made, pooling the blood of consequence beneath their feet as the night dragged on. Whichever way this went, they’d have scars from this night. Scars and scabs and things which could not be spoken. And that made her feel utterly hopeless.

I think all artists struggle to represent the geometry of life in their own way, just like writers deal with archetypes. There are only so many stories that you can tell, but an infinite number of storytellers.

I think about the story I always tell her – of the kind lady who gave her to us. I suppose that must be how she imagines her father – as a kind man who gave her away too, as if she were a gift. Only now he wants her back.

I think that for Claire Wright, reality is whatever she wants it to be.

I thought of you as a god, but now I see that you are nothing but a man with a man’s weaknesses.

I thought if I loved you enough I could change you. I was so stupid.

...it is my belief that all of us suffer from some kind of mental instability. What would you say if I told you we all are a little crazy?

IT IS SAID that time is unrelated to everything else. It goes on and on, unnoticing of our actions, our falls, our triumphs. Who’s to care then, if time does not remember us? It flies by, fleeting, inattentive and disinterested in any occupants of this earth. What are we, then, if time thinks so little of everyone it passes? Time is truly apathetic to the many to whom a little empathy would mean so much. ~April~ Disarming Reign of Blood

It means that I don’t have to accept that normal people can do bad things.", Celestra Caine in FADE by Kailin Gow

I try to read and write something interesting every day.

It’s an old story, amigo mío. Be careful of those closest to you because they can do the most damage.

It’s a hard thing to accept that someone wants you dead. It forces you to decide if you have anything worth living for.

I told you stupid sons of bitches that this was going to happen!

It’s as if he’s trodden in my footsteps, seen what I’ve seen, felt what I’ve felt, as I’ve criss-crossed the moors countless times.

It's a strange feeling, owning a secret. It's like a stone in my stomach, crushing my insides and making me feel sick every time I think of it.

It says in the Qur’an that the taking of a single life destroys a universe, and there was the evidence in front of me - twenty seven hundred universes shattered in a few moments. Universes of family, of children, of friends.

It's never too late.

It’s quiet in the suburbs. It’s too cold for people to be in their gardens; and it’s not a thoroughfare so few cars drive by. I look past decaying roses and through the first flush of Michelmas daisies, blazing a glorious purple, into the darkened windows of the houses we walk by. Who lives here? Are they watching us? Did one of our neighbours do something seven years ago that he now regrets? How little we know of the people who surround us.

It's this place. Whatever darkness came to the island, it's here to stay. Stick around long enough and it gets inside your skin, into your cells, like an infection.

It suddenly occurred to him that for the first time in years, they were about to be alone together for more than five minutes. Just the two of them. On a small jet. Tens of thousands of feet in the air. Christ. Maybe he should've packed a parachute, just in case.

It’s your hero complex, isn’t it? You should see someone about that.” “Right after I get my head examined.

I turned to her, my whole body hard with tiredness and regret.

It was a dark, dismal afternoon, like they all seem to be these days, when I got this call. I could hear the rain battering the windowpane of my office when the phone rang.

It was like a commercial for laundry detergent or tampons or a prescription medication with death listed as a possible side effect.

It was in Cleveland that Magic Slim became the most successful pornographic film producer in America. His training center was a key link in a human trafficking supply chain stretching from the former Soviet Republics in Eastern Europe to the United States. Trafficking accounts for an estimated $32 billion in annual trade with sex slavery and pornographic film production accounting for the greatest percentage. The girls arrived at Slim’s building young and naive, they left older and wiser. This was a classic value chain with each link making a contribution.  Slim’s trainers were the best, and it showed in the final product. Each class of girls was judged on the merits. The fast learners went on to advanced training. They learned proper etiquette, social skills and party games. They learned how to dress, apply makeup and discuss world events.  Best in-class were advertised in international style magazines with code words. These codes were known only to select clients and certain intermediaries approved by Slim. This elaborate distribution system was part of Slim’s business model, his clients paid an annual subscription fee for the on-line dictionary. The code words and descriptions were revised monthly.  An interested client would pay an access fee for further information that included a set of professional  photographs, a video and voice recordings of the model addressing the client by name.  Should the client accept, a detailed travel itinerary was submitted calling for first class travel and accommodation.  Slim required a letter of understanding spelling out terms and conditions and a 50% deposit. He didn’t like contracts, his word was his bond, everyone along the chain knew that. Slim's business was booming.

It wasn't the wild animals that scared her, but the civilised ones.

It was right that she was now staying at the ranch. She belonged there. She belonged with him. Always had. Always would.

It was one thing to talk about ghosts, quite another to have them messing around with things in the physical world.

It was strange that the girl couldn’t remember what she had for lunch yet somehow knew every designer’s phone number by heart.

It was the freedom to experiment that made this experiment called Freedom possible.

it was unmatched life experience that bestowed in her eyes the sultry gleam that separates women from girls. although she viewed her “life experience” like bruises on a peach, men of all ages still found ways to see past the indications of damaged goods long enough to offer her a drink. hell, it was less than an hour ago that one such man called her “gothic perfection” and cried on her shoulder. her boyfriend agreed that a crazy life can “grow a girl up quick”; it was only last november that she turned seventeen.

It was the same sky as on that day. It spread as infinitely as our desires, deep into the unknown.

I understand, gentlemen,” John Kennedy said. “If you find that life it’s not easy, let me tell you, death is worse.

I’ve been on the run most of my life, yet I still need to mentally go over the plan several times a day. Because they’ve almost caught me before. Because they’ll never stop hunting me.

I’ve been thinking that you, me and Kristy should all have a sleepover or something like that. Wouldn‘t that be so cool! - Carol

I've always said women are vicious creatures - Detective Zach Grimes

I’ve never been on a bike,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been on a bike but not a motorcycle.” “And why is that?” he asks. “Bugs. They get in your mouth, right? That’s just gross.” Chris makes a face. “If you ride around with your mouth hanging open, I assume that could be a possibility.

I've learned that the most unbelievable is the most believable.