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H Quotes

Browse famous quotes beginning with H. This page is a child index of the full Popular Quotes A-Z directory.

All H Quotes

“He was without any comforts of God — no feeling that God loved him — no feeling that God pitied him — no feeling that God supported him. God was his sun before — now that sun became all darkness… He was without God — he was as if he had no God. All that God had been to him before was taken from him now. He was Godless — deprived of his God. He had the feeling of the condemned, when the Judge says: “Depart from me, ye cursed,” “who shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord and from the glory of his power.” He felt that God said the same to him. Ah! This is the hell which Christ suffered. The ocean of Christ’s sufferings is unfathomable… He was forsaken in the [place] of sinners. If you close with him as your surety, you will never be forsaken… “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” [The answer?] For me — for me.”

“He was, as Billy Name said in the acclaimed Ric Burns documentary about Andy Warhol, uninterested in being a second-tier artist. He was uninterested in being a first-tier artist! He wanted to be, you know, a god. Someone who completely changed the...he wanted to be Zeus with the lightning bolt and nothing less would have satisfied him.”

“He was, like everyone of a strongly erotic disposition, twice as good, twice as much himself when he knew that women liked him, just as many actors find their most ardent vein when they sense that they have cast their spell over the audience, the breathing mass of spectators before them.”

“He wasn't at all what she had imagined. Tall, yes- but not plain, not dependable, not kind. Not by any stretch of fancy. The gray eyes that regarded her were as deep and subtle and light-tricked as smoke from a wildfire. The face belonged to an archangel from the shadows: a cool, sulky mouth and an aquiline profile, and Satan's own intelligence in the assessing look he gave her. The candles behind him lit a smoldering halo of reddish gold around his black hair and turned each faint, frosted breath to a brief glow. He was not homely. He was utterly and appallingly beautiful, in the way the gleaming steel blossoms of murder and mayhem adorning the walls of the great hall were beautiful.”

“He wasn’t certain how this woman had come to mean so much to him. It seemed that one day she was a stranger, and the next she was as indispensable as air. And yet it hadn’t happened in a blinding flash. It had been a slow, sneaky process, quietly coloring his emotions until he realized that without her, his life lacked all meaning. -Benedict's thoughts about Sophie”

“He wasn’t dying—he was being harvested. Flayed alive by nerves that refused silence, each breath shredded like lungs packed with razors. A blink drew blood. A thought detonated fire. His studio became a mausoleum, and he, its invalid—crucified, disowned by his own biology. He had begged for the compound that once shackled the torment—denied. They called it withdrawal; he knew it as state-sanctioned mutilation. His fingers clawed through endless typos, desperate to name the unnamable. Even his phone collapsed mid-sentence, unable to carry one more fragment of his possession. He wasn’t sick. He was erased. Invalidated. A failed experiment rotting in plain view, too grotesque for rescue. And still he burned.”

“He wasn't entirely surprised to wake up the next morning with Sjurd pressed against his back, but was still cross enough to roll straight out of bed and go down to a solitary breakfast (because trying to stab his new husband through the throat with the butter knife would not have convinced anyone that the match was secure).”