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Southern Writers Quotes

Browse 46 quotes about Southern Writers.

Southern Writers Quotes

“He ascended the mountain in darkness, no lamplight, a world black and silver and blue. The moon lay scattered through the woods in blades, glowing palely, the wind rising now and again to moan through the trees. The trail scrawled ever upward, toward the looming darkness of the mountain's peak. Above it all the sea of night, the strange ornamentation of stars.”

FictionNovelSouthern FictionSouthern Writers
Book:Gods of Howl Mountain
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“Every town has ‘THAT house’: the one that once held dark secrets. You know the house… the one no one will purchase? The one whose walls have seen blood? The one that even birds avoid, and the darkened windows resemble empty eye sockets? There are furtive, yet insistent, whispers about ‘that’ house, murmurs that perhaps the house is best left alone, lest the dark stain left upon that abode’s history seep into our own present-day.”

GhostParanormalSouthernGhostsNew OrleansHauntingHauntedSouthern WritersFrench QuarterNola
Book:The Haunted History of New Orleans: Ghosts of the French Quarter
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“I do not want to live in a world without butterflies. Without the intricate eyes and velvety wings, graceful splashes of color dancing on the breeze. Airy, delicate keepers of hope. Metamorphic symbols of change, growth, maturation. ... I do not want this world without the butterflies. I could not bear the wailing of flowers. --from 'A World Without Butterflies' (a poem)”

PoetryNaturePoemNature QuotesSouthern WritersClimate Change QuotesEnvironmental PoetryQuotes About Butterflies
Book:organic
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“If I weren't so screwed up, I would've sold my soul a long time ago for a handsome man who made me feel pretty or who could at least treat me to a Millionaire's Martini. Instead I lingered over a watered down Sparkling Apple and felt sorry about what I was about to do to the blue-eyed bartender standing in front of me. Although I shouldn’t, after all, I am a bail recovery agent. It's my job to get my skip, no matter the cost.If I weren't so screwed up, I would've sold my soul a long time ago for a handsome man who made me feel pretty or who could at least treat me to a Millionaire's Martini. Instead I lingered over a watered down Sparkling Apple and felt sorry about what I was about to do to the blue-eyed bartender standing in front of me. Although I shouldn't, after all, I am a bail recovery agent. It's my job to get my skip, no matter the cost. Yet, I had been wondering lately. What was this job costing me? Yet, I had been wondering lately. What was this job costing me?”

SummerAfrican AmericanRomantic SuspenseFamily DramaMystery SuspenseChicklitSouthern WritersSouthern Authors
Book:A Good Excuse to Be Bad
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“Ask me about my childhood, and I will tell you to walk to the edge of the woods with a choir of crickets chirping from every direction, a hot, humid breeze brushing through your hair, your feet, bare and callused. Stand there, unmoving, and watch the dance of ten thousand fireflies blinking on and off in the darkness. Inhale the scent of cured tobacco, freshly plowed southern soil, burning leaves, and honeysuckle. Swallow the taste of blackberries, picked straight from the bushes, and lick your teeth, the after-taste still sweet in your mouth. Now, stretch out on the ground and relax all your muscles. Watch nature's festival of flickering lights.”

ChildhoodFarmingSouthern WritersFirefliesGeorgia Writers
Author:Brenda Sutton Rose
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“Many people, after spending a long weekend being stealthily seduced by this grand dame of the South, mistakenly think that they have gotten to know her: they believe (in error) that after a long stroll amongst the rustling palmettoes and gas lamps, a couple of sumptuous meals, and a tour or two, that they have discovered everything there is to know about this seemingly genteel, elegant city. But like any great seductress, Charleston presents a careful veneer of half-truths and outright fabrications, and it lets you, the intended conquest, fill in many of the blanks. Seduction, after all, is not true love, nor is it a gentle act. She whispers stories spun from sugar about pirates and patriots and rebels, about plantations and traditions and manners and yes, even ghosts; but the entire time she is guarded about the real story. Few tourists ever hear the truth, because at the dark heart of Charleston is a winding tale of violence, tragedy and, most of all, sin.”

GhostParanormalSouthernGhostsHauntedSouth CarolinaCharlestonSouthern Writers
Book:Charleston's Ghosts: Hauntings in the Holy City
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“Bells Screamed all off key, wrangling together as they collided in midair, horns and whistles mingled shrilly with cries of human distress; sulphur-colored light ex-ploded through the black windowpane and flashed away in darkness. Miranda waking from a dreamless sleep asked without expecting an answer, “What is happening?” for there was a bustle of voices and footsteps in the corridor, and a sharpness in the air; the far clamour went on, a furious exasperated shrieking like a mob in revolt. The light came on, and Miss Tanner said in a furry voice, “Hear that? They’re celebrating . It’s the Armistice. The war is over, my dear.” Her hands trembled. She rattled a spoon in a cup, stopped to listen, held the cup out to Miranda. From the ward for old bedridden women down the hall floated a ragged chorus of cracked voices singing, “My country, ’tis of thee…” Sweet land… oh terrible land of this bitter world where the sound of rejoicing was a clamour of pain, where ragged tuneless old women, sitting up waiting for their evening bowl of cocoa, were singing, “Sweet land of Liberty-” “Oh, say, can you see?” their hopeless voices were asking next, the hammer strokes of metal tongues drowning them out. “The war is over,” said Miss Tanner, her underlap held firmly, her eyes blurred. Miranda said, “Please open the window, please, I smell death in here.”

DeathWorld War OneInfluenzaWw1Southern WritersArmisticeFemale Writers1918Short NovelsKatherine Anne PorterSpanish Influenza1918 InfluenzaPale Horse Pale Rider
Book:Pale Horse, Pale Rider
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“As Chloe pulled out of the drive, she realized the weapon next to her made her feel like she was more in control of the situation. As she drove down the Mississippi back roads, a sense of peace settled in her soul. Chloe knew it wasn’t just the .45 resting on her front seat that brought the feeling. It was more of an awareness of being where she belonged. But that was crazy.”

ThrillerCrime FictionSuspense ThrillerMystery SuspenseSouthern FictionThrillers MysterySouthern WritersSuspense FictionThriller Suspense
Book:Blood Beneath the Pines
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