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Gothic Quotes

Browse 398 quotes about Gothic.

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Gothic Quotes

“Gallant. Las costillas parecen comprimirle el corazón. Desliza el pulgar por encima de la palabra, la misma que se encontraba en el final del diario de su madre. Nunca tuvo sentido para ella. La buscó en uno de los diccionarios pesados de la maestra, descubrió que significaba «valiente» en inglés, en especial en tiempos complicados. Coraje ante la adversidad. Pero para su madre, para Olivia, no es una descripción. Es un lugar. Una casa.”

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Author:V. E. Schwab
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“Time is tick, tick, ticking away. How many souls will I capture today? Will they be a challenge or will they be given? Only time will tell as the clock keeps tick, tick, ticking. Your god has arrived with enough hatred for y’all, with enough evil for the big and small, so come one, come all. I will shred your souls and place them in my satchel, call you a settler and make you my peddler. Come one, come all, come stand behind your god. I will lead you into the darkness of Earth's end. Come one, come all, my wilted flowers, come claim your title, speak out and cheer it. Come one, come all, let’s have a ball, my wilted flowers . . . Sweet, Unconquerable Spirits.”

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Book:The Possession
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“Reform or no reform, he never ceased to promote the interests of St. Denis and the Royal House of France with the same naive, and in his case not entirely unjustified, conviction of their identity with those of the nation and with the Will of God as a modern oil or steel magnate may promote legislation favorable to his company and to his bank as something beneficial to the welfare of this country and to the progress of mankind.”

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Book:Perspective as Symbolic Form
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“The boy was there too, stumbling through the living room horde and passing out magic mushrooms from a paper bag. His eyeballs sparkled inside gaping, play-dough sockets while his limbs hung gaunt and exhausted from eight straight days of self-medicating fear. Another boy in a black tee pinched some mushroom flakes from his bag, nodded his thanks, and mouthed the word “bro” like blowing a man kiss.”

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Book:Fallout Dreams
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“It was now autumn, and I made up my mind to make, before winter set in, an excursion across Normandy, a country with which I was not acquainted. It must be borne in mind that I began with Rouen, and for a week I wandered about enthusiastic with admiration, in that picturesque town of the Middle Ages, in that veritable museum of extraordinary Gothic monuments. Well, one afternoon, somewhere about four o'clock, as I happened to be passing down an out-of-the-way by-street, in the middle of which flowed a deep river, black as ink, named the Eau de Robec, my attention wholly directed to examining the bizarre and antique physiognomy of the houses, was all of a sudden attracted by the sight of a series of shops of furniture brokers, one after the other, from door to door along the street. Ah! these second-hand brokers had well chosen their locality, these sordid old traffickers of bric-a-brac, in this fantastic alley leading up from stream of that sinister dark water, under the steep pointed overhanging gables of tiled roofs and projecting shingle eaves, where the weathercocks of the past still creaked overhead. ("Who Knows?")”

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Book:Ghostly By Gaslight
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“Killing is why I exist," she said finally. "It is my only love. I used to struggle with my temper, but now I embrace it. You cannot fathom how many I have slain, both mortal and Folk. Why should a little nothing like you be the end of me?" "You know why," I said. "Because it would be a fitting conclusion." She gave me the sort of look that reminded me of Razkarden when he sizes up a potential meal. The shadow in the room seemed to deepen, redden, and grow damp, a slippery damp I felt through my shoes. I only waited. "Well?" I said. She seemed to deflate slightly, and the illusion vanished. "You wish to find the door to Death?" she said, a slyness entering her voice. "Very well. I will tell you how. But I must be allowed to depart this realm unharmed." I could see she expected me to protest or bargain with her. "Done," I said. Her lip curled. "Such a dull little thing," she said. "You have no spirit worth breaking, I see. You are not like your grandfather at all." "And you are not as frightening as you think you are," I said.”

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Book:Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales
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“Yet, for a while, I saw—but with how terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the black-robed judges. They appeared to me white—whiter than the sheet upon which I trace these words—and thin even to grotesqueness; thin with the intensity of their expression of firmness—of immoveable resolution—of stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the decrees of what to me was Fate were still issuing from those lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered because no sound succeeded.”

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Book:The Pit and the Pendulum
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“El cristianismo glorifica el sufrimiento. Lo llama virtud para alentar a las gentes a crear más vidas miserables. ¿Enfermedad? Santidad a la vista. ¿Pobreza? Gran favorita del Señor. Se exhorta al cristiano a ayudar al prójimo, pero son demasiados prójimos por ayudar. Se espera que el cristiano atenúe con pequeñas dádivas el desastre colosal causado por la propia religión.”

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Book:La familia maldita
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“Sterling Memorial, the main library at Yale, had been built to resemble a Gothic cathedral, replete with stained glass, carved stonework, and a crenellated tower. Completed in 1930, the structure was "as near to modern Gothic as we dared" according to its architect, James Gamble Rogers. The use of the word "dare" always intrigued me. It suggested boundaries and infractions. There was, as I had come to expect at Yale, a scandalous story attached to the library's design. The benefactress, an old woman with failing eyesight, wanted a place of worship, and Yale wanted a library. Flouting its own motto, Lux et Veritas, Yale presented her with a structural trompe l'oeil. A cathedral in its outlines, but in its details a pantheon to books, where King Lear was a demigod and Huckleberry Finn a mischievous angel. The visual world had already become a greasy smudge to the benefactress, so the old biddy died never knowing the difference. Light and Truth, indeed.”

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Book:Bitter in the Mouth
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“Beneath the haunted castle lies the dungeon keep: the womb from whose darkness the ego first emerged, the tomb to which it knows it must return at last. Beneath the crumbling shell or paternal authority, lies the maternal blackness, imagined by the Gothic writer as a prison, as a torture chamber- from which the cries of the kidnapped anima cannot even be heard. The upper and the lower levels of the ruined castle or abbey represent the contradictory fears at the heart of Gothic terror: dread of the superego, whose splendid battlements have been battered but not quite cast down- and of the id, whose buried darkness abounds in dark visions no stormer of the castle had ever touched.”

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Book:Love and Death in the American Novel
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“And what if you try to kill me? Or worse: to kiss me?”

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Book:Nightmarish Sacrifice
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“I knew then that I would devote every minute we had left together to making her happy, to repairing the pain I had caused her and returning to her what I never known how to give her. These pages will be our memory until she drows her last breath in my arms and I take her forever and escape at last to a place where neither heaven nor hell will ever be able to find us.”

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Author:Carlos Ruiz Zafón
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“Unholy by Stewart Stafford Horrors walk from out a dream, Apparitions dare reality’s seam, Gnarly fingers excavate blame, Sanity stolen in a hellish flame. No way to think or even breathe, Or kind worldly goods bequeath, For Time’s skeletal fingers snap, Catching souls in a fiendish trap. Visions boxed, then assail again, A phantom grin is no one’s friend, Gasp out awakening perspiration, Sun falls in creeping desperation. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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