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Quote by Anne Rice

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La Reina de los Condenados

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Author

Anne Rice
Anne Rice

Anne Rice is an American author known for her gothic and fantasy novels, born on October 4, 1941. Her most famous work, 'The Vampire Chronicles', has gained her a wide readership and influenced vampire culture. more

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“I know you not quite well Yet I foolishly surrender my mind to you. Slowly and carefully you have cast a spell Now my virgin heart only longs for you. There is no need to push, I am already falling. Once proudly tall, I’m no longer standing. Knowing well that I am doomed to misery, I will roll the dice and take delight in my suffering.”

“Memories are funny things,” Mrs. Darby pressed on. “They are fickle creatures, constantly changing. Every time we look back on a memory, it has changed, it is never the same as how it was when we made the memory. How could it be? Because every time we look back, we too have changed. We have collected new experiences, new opinions, new pains. You aren’t looking back on them with the same eyes.” “Nostalgia is not like it used to be,” Danny quipped, and was pleased with himself that he drew a laugh out of her.”

“With a suddenness that startled them all the wizard sprang to his feet. He was laughing! "I have it!" he cried. "Of course, of course! Absurdly simple, like most riddles when you see the answer." Picking up his staff he stood before the rock and said in a clear voice: Mellon! The star shone out briefly and faded again. Then silently a great doorway was outlined, though not a crack or joint had been visible before. Slowly it divided in the middle and swung outwards inch by inch, until both doors lay back against the wall.”

“Highlanders, driving their "creagh" toward Balquhidder, passed, their moccasin-clad feet leaving as little impress on the mist as they had left in life upon the tussocks of bent-grass. They urged the shadowy cattle with the ponts of their Lochaber axes; and last of all, wrapped in his plaid, his thick hair curling close about his hard-lined features, passed one I knew at once by his great length of arm and red beard, on which the damp hung in a frosty dew, just as it hung upon the coats of the West Highland kyloes that he drove before him on the rode. Though for two hundred years he had slept well in the lone graveyard of the deserted church beside Loch Voil, he seemed to know the road as perfectly as he had known it in his old foraying days. As he passed he moved his target forward and his hand stole to his sword, as if he recognised one of his ancient foes. Then he was swallowed up by the same mist that had protected him so often in his life.”