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Quote by Richard Matheson

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I Am Legend and Other Stories

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Richard Matheson
Richard Matheson

Richard Matheson was an American author renowned for his science fiction and horror novels. His works spanned a variety of literary genres, including novels, short stories, and television scripts. Matheson's writing career began in the mid-20th century, and he rose to prominence in the science fiction and horror literary communities. Many of his works have been adapted into films and television shows, such as 'The Night of the Living Dead' and 'The Shrinking Man'. His novel 'The Night of the Living Dead' was first published in 1962 and later adapted into the eponymous film, achieving great success. His short story collection 'The Shrinking Man' was also adapted into a film, further solidifying his reputation. more

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“He couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe. As he stared down at the tiny body in his arms—so limp and lifeless, so utterly unlike the vicious human hurricane he knew as Fang Runin—all he could do was tremble. You bitch, he thought. You fucking bitch. He realized dimly that he ought to be glad she was dead. He should have been fucking delighted. And rationally, intellectually, he was. Rin was a monster, a murderer, a destroyer of worlds. Nothing but blood and ashes ever trailed in her wake. The world was a better, safer, and more peaceful place without her in it. He believed that. He had to believe that. And yet. And yet, when he looked at that broken body, all he wanted to do was howl.”

“Survive. Survive. Survive. It was the way he'd lived his life, moment to moment, breath to breath, since that terrible morning when he'd woken to find that Jordie was still dead and he was still very much alive. Kaz tumbled through the dark. He was colder than he'd ever been. He thought of Inej's hand on his cheek. His mind had gone jagged at the sensation, a riot of confusion. It had been terror and disgust - in all of that clamour - desire, a wish that lingered still, the hope that she would touch him again.”

“Proud Songsters The thrushes sing as the sun is going, And the finches whistle in ones and pairs, And as it gets dark loud nightingales In bushes Pipe, as they can when April wears, As if all Time were theirs. These are brand-new birds of twelve-months’ growing, Which a year ago, or less than twain, No finches were, nor nightingales, Nor thrushes, But only particles of grain, And earth, and air, and rain.”