Best 1914 quotes in «hell quotes» category

He had decided that if he ever returned to his old job he would create a special level of hell, an enormous inescapable shop of attractive but useless and overpriced items that the damned would wander for eternity in the cold delusion that this was what they wanted. And then Nerys had taken him to IKEA and Clovenhoof realised the humans had once again beaten him to it.

He had always thought that hell would be hot. But here they were, right inside the mouth of it, and it was freezing.

He knows nothing about how this will all end, except that it will surely end. He tries to imagine himself into a future, somewhere past this point, but he cannot. There is nothing to do but to keep on existing, in this exact time and place. This is what hell must be like. Waiting without knowing. Not hell, but purgatory. Worse than hell.

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

Hell, Hell—" He couldn't believe that a word with so musical a ring could be the name of something bad.

Hell is a hell of a lie! God is not a torturer!

Hell is so bloody thing, but with Lucifer from Lucifer series, hell is like comedy.

...Hell is the home of the unreal and of the seekers for happiness. It is the only refuge from heaven, which is, as I tell you, the home of the masters of reality, and from earth, which is the home of the slaves of reality. The earth is a nursery in which men and women play at being heroes and heroines, saints and sinners; but they are dragged down from their fool’s paradise by their bodies: hunger and cold and thirst, age and decay and disease, death above all, make them slaves of reality: thrice a day meals must be eaten and digested: thrice a century a new generation must be engendered: ages of faith, of romance, and of science are all driven at last to have but one prayer, “Make me a healthy animal.” But here you escape this tyranny of the flesh; for here you are not an animal at all: you are a ghost, an appearance, an illusion, a convention, deathless, ageless: in a word, bodiless. There are no social questions here, no political questions, no religious questions, best of all, perhaps, no sanitary questions. Here you call your appearance beauty, your emotions love, your sentiments heroism, your aspirations virtue, just as you did on earth; but here there are no hard facts to contradict you, no ironic contrast of your needs with your pretensions, no human comedy, nothing but a perpetual romance, a universal melodrama. As our German friend put it in his poem, “the poetically nonsensical here is good sense; and the Eternal Feminine draws us ever upward and on...

Hell: a personalised service.

Hell, he now understood, went beyond simple torture. Hell inflicted agony with intermittent reprieves to maintain the hope of peace. Hell was not endless dark, but rare rays of sunlight to keep one’s eyes longing for their bright beauty. Hell forced hours of suffocation beneath the freezing water with times of release to keep one accustomed to the joy of breath, to let needful expectation be repeatedly stabbed by deprivation.

Hell is being alone for all eternity. Alone, unloved, unloving.

Hell is no match for ignorance.

Hell is nothing but a place we wish God has created for our enemies, we ourselves think that he will ultimately show some kind of clemency towards us

Hell isn't having no choice. It's having to make a choice between horrific things.

Hell, is trying to do what you can't do, trying to be what you're not

Hell and heaven are within us

Hell is not merely preferable to heaven-it's the only clear notion of an afterlife-of a goal worth striving toward-that human imagination has been able to devise.

Hell is oneself, Hell is alone, the other figures in it merely projections

Hell is other people. I say quoting Jean Paul Sartre. And Sartre? I chuckle to myself. He was only half right. Heaven can be other people too.

Hell [...] is the absence of God and the presence of Time.

He liked to make his hearers jump, now and then, and he said that our gravel pit was much the same sort of place as Gehenna. My elders thought this far-fetched, but I saw no reason why hell should not have, so to speak, visible branch establishments throughout the earth, and I have visited quite a few of them since.

Hell is hell because, there, evil passes unremarked upon.

Hell is a conspiracy, and the first requirement of a conspiracy is that it remain underground.

Hell is full of musical amateurs: music is the brandy of the damned. May not one lost soul be permitted to abstain?

Hell is just a frame of mind.

Hell isn’t fire and brimstone. It’s New York City.

Hell in life indicates a state of suffering, of agony, of torture (by others, by circumstances, or by ourselves), and of insipid colors and little joy. Hell is a heavy vibration that drags us spiraling down from the highest to the lowest, darkest vibrations..

Hell is a choice because salvation is available to anyone who seeks it.

Hell is a library," she said, tightening her fresh knot. "That really doesn't sound bad, Julia." "That's because I'm not finished. Hell is a library of books containing every word you've ever said, and videotapes of everything you've ever done." "So what. Do you have to watch them?" "No, you don't have to. But would you be able to help yourself? It would be unbearable. I couldn't resist, but I would hate myself after." She gave the noose two good, hard tugs. "Plus, even if you could resist the temptation, you'd eventually get so bored that you'd do anything. And the only thing to read is stuff that you've said and the only thing to do is watch yourself.

Hell is not a place you go for your sins. It is where you are when you are not sharing the gifts you were given.

Hell is repetition, you go over and over and over. That's hell, so I will eat your eyes in hell, I will be waiting you in hell, I will repeat that over and over and over...

Hell is something you carry with you.

Hell is truth known too late.

Hell, it has been suggested, is other people. This has always come as a bit of a surprise to working demons, who had always thought that Hell was sticking sharp things into people and pushing them into lakes of blood and so on.

Hell says hallelujah when fools say amen without understanding or applying truth to their lives.

Hell’s empty because all the demons are in my head.

Hell's only the flip side of Paradise. Sometimes it's hard to differentiate between the two.

Hell was full of clocks, he was sure of it. There was no torment, after all, that could not be exacerbated by a contemplation of time passing. The large case clock at the end of the corridor had a particularly penetrating tick-tock, audiable above and through all the noises of the house. It seemed to Lord John Grey to echo his own heartbeats, each one a step on the road towards death.

Hell was hot and full of unkind people in a hurry; there was far too much red tape; and the bureaucrats were all shockingly corrupt.

Hell was not a pit of fire and brimstone. Hell was waking up alone, the sheets wet with your tears and your seed, knowing the woman you had dreamed of would never come back to you.

He looked like hell, but damn, if hell didn't look good on him.

Hell was invented to scare to death the unruly human mind and bring it to obedience.

Hell will be Heaven with Friends, Heaven will be Hell without them.

Hell on Earth is about to be unleashed.

Hell people talk about hell, love people talk about love!

Hell’s got IT? Yes, of course. Who do you think invented Candy Crush?

Hell was grey. Dim and lifeless... I felt numb and in pain at the same time and that was not supposed to happen in heaven. But you would think that with all the queers they had sent here since time began, hell would have a better decorating job.

Hell was never God's intention. It is man's invention. It is a human-manufactured religious icon, no less idolatrous than deifying a statue.

He mostly preached in the evening, when the college church was already shrouded in shadow. And he chose subjects that filled the imagination with salutary fear—sin, Hell, death—painting pictures that were sometimes cajoling, more often harrowing, evoking the effects of the fire on the damned. The little group of pupils listened, apprehensive, sometimes terrified, a distraught flock whose black shepherd is gesticulating towards distant flames.

Here, her hand in mine was the one reality that severed us from the cold click-clack of Hell. I rubbed her hand and she sighed; wasn’t that meaning? Wasn’t that something we could cling to? I could be with this other. I could form no other relation, but maybe her hand in mine was enough, both sufficient and necessary. In Hell there was no sense of place, because all places were the same. Uniform monotony. A place without place. A place without context. But, here, now, I could rub her hand and she would sigh. She was a difference. Perhaps each person was the only difference in all these halls of unchanging ranks of books, kiosks, clocks, and carpet, and that, and that, at least, we had to hold to.