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Mystery Thriller Quotes

Browse 111 quotes about Mystery Thriller.

Mystery Thriller Quotes

“We want the same happiness and comfort and love and security that will make our lives, however long or short, something that we feel was well-lived. We must first help our neighbors, friends, family, and even strangers before we can help ourselves. We cannot be selective or feel that we are better than anyone else in this world where we all want the same things. Only then, will we be able to leave this Earth with the peace of knowing that we gave ourselves to help others, and doing that, we helped ourselves, and doing that, we made this world a little better.”

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Book:The Ascension of Mary
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“She felt a pang, a deep wish for the bay, the soaring towers of the bridge, the sunlight skipping across ten thousand whitecaps between the Golden Gate and Alcatraz. She wanted the scent of the Pacific and the beauty of the cities and the mountains, and her man. She closed her eyes. She opened them and felt small, surrounded by the sweep of the continent. The sky was vast. It was glorious and terrifying.”

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Book:Into the Black Nowhere
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“Yeah,” Fred said and turned to the skinny teenager waiting on him. “Give me two bear crawlers and two chocolate eclairs.” “I thought Mimi made you promise no donuts.” Fred looked surprised. “This is not a donut, it’s a bear crawler. And this is not a donut, it’s an eclair.” I rolled my eyes.”

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Book:Segment of One
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“David sat in the teacher’s lounge. Two other shlemiels sat on the other side, getting coffee. Sports, movies, conversation. He would have to join the group. The new assistant principal was to join them this afternoon. Just say hello. He got up and got coffee. David held the hot coffee and pretended to drink it. Didn’t want to spill on his white shirt. Then a tall slender woman walked in with the main campus principal, Edmond, and she looked around. Now would come the meet and greet. Fresh meat. Edmond turned to him. “This is David Bar David, Doctor Bar David. Math.” The thin woman reached out her hand and David shook it. “My,” she said, “such a warm hand.” “But a cold heart,” he said.”

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Book:Segment of One
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“Holly rolled out of bed and took off her purple and pink pajamas. Jeez, how babyish they were. For Christmas, she’d ask for something more grown-up. Not a leather teddy, but something more grown-up. She was not sure what a leather teddy was, but she heard girls talking in gym class and would have to Google it.”

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Book:Segment of One
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“He began as a minor imitator of Fitzgerald, wrote a novel in the late twenties which won a prize, became dissatisfied with his work, stopped writing for a period of years. When he came back it was to BLACK MASK and the other detective magazines with a curious and terrible fiction which had never been seen before in the genre markets; Hart Crane and certainly Hemingway were writing of people on the edge of their emotions and their possibility but the genre mystery markets were filled with characters whose pain was circumstantial, whose resolution was through action; Woolrich's gallery was of those so damaged that their lives could only be seen as vast anticlimax to central and terrible events which had occurred long before the incidents of the story. Hammett and his great disciple, Chandler, had verged toward this more than a little, there is no minimizing the depth of their contribution to the mystery and to literature but Hammett and Chandler were still working within the devices of their category: detectives confronted problems and solved (or more commonly failed to solve) them, evil was generalized but had at least specific manifestations: Woolrich went far out on the edge. His characters killed, were killed, witnessed murder, attempted to solve it but the events were peripheral to the central circumstances. What I am trying to say, perhaps, is that Hammett and Chandler wrote of death but the novels and short stories of Woolrich *were* death. In all of its delicacy and grace, its fragile beauty as well as its finality. Most of his plots made no objective sense. Woolrich was writing at the cutting edge of his time. Twenty years later his vision would attract a Truffaut whose own influences had been the philosophy of Sartre, the French nouvelle vague, the central conception that nothing really mattered. At all. But the suffering. Ah, that mattered; that mattered quite a bit.”

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Book:The Fantastic Stories of Cornell Woolrich
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“Did you join the Bureau to get as far from that case as possible?' Rainey said. 'I took this job to make a difference.' 'Honey.' The tries rang on the concrete. 'Course you did. We all did. You can say you love it. You're scared of it. You're proud. You're a badass bitch. Girl Scout with a twelve gauge. Reading psychopaths' minds is your superpower.' She cut a glance Caitlin's way. 'you can dig it.”

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Book:Into the Black Nowhere
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“Even adults who were stiffened by the starch of their miserable lives, for whom breaking the stony discipline of austere and judgmental intolerance was usually off the table, melted in the magical luminescence and energetic charm of the pre-pubescent Ruka.”

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Book:Love Connection: Romance in the Land of the Rising Sun
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“The regular choreography, entrances and exits of blooms in stages such that the garden looked like an ever-evolving carousel of swirling rainbows and radiant butterflies, seemed condensed. All of the flowers still obeyed some silent urgent command to make their debut. But this year, it definitely unfolded more quickly, as if racing to meet a new compelling deadline.”

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Book:Love Connection: Romance in the Land of the Rising Sun
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“It was the fundamental bifurcation of the masses of human meat into two starkly opposite classes: the haves and the have-nots. The have-nots had barely anything. The haves had it all. The haves had everything except concern and compassion for the have-nots, who they regarded as little more than cockroaches.”

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Book:Love Connection: Romance in the Land of the Rising Sun
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“Then I noticed the top envelope had my name on it. My real name, not Judith Broch but Julie Pike. My mother had long since stopped using that name for me. She’d lived under an assumed name herself. The only person who’d be writing to me with that name, at that address was him. Or more likely, someone working for him. Raymond Wayfield; serial rapist and murderer. My father. I stared at that letter for a long time. The light shifted in the flat as cars went by outside. Blue whirling lights and sirens went past, setting off a series of thumps and a baby’s cries in the flat above. Still I couldn’t bring myself to reach out and open that envelope. As if by doing so I’d be letting that man back into my life. Into my reality. As if he’d ever left.”

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Book:The Butcher's Daughter
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