Quotes from Books and Stuff

Walk any path in Destiny's garden, and you will be forced to choose, not once but many times. The paths fork and divide. With each step you take through Destiny's garden, you make a choice; and every choice determines future paths. However, at the end of a lifetime of walking you might look back, and see only one path stretching out behind you; or look ahead, and see only darkness.

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Somebody told me there's a rumor he had entered into a pact with the devil or something. I think that's nonsense, though I did hear another story about him which I much preferred. Apparently he's always having these mysterious deliveries of chickens to his hotel rooms, and no one dares to ask why or even guess what it is he wants them for, because nobody sees a single scrap of them again. Well, I met somebody who knows exactly what he wants them for. The somebody I met once had the job of secretly smuggling the chickens straight back out of his rooms again.

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Nana Grubb skulked through the sludge and the dirt,

The solitary witness of Mr. Grubb's hurt.

She gathered the petals and hid them from sight,

The buttercup fragments of Mr. Grubb's plight.

So Billy and Bella and dear Mrs. Grubb

Would not know his madness, but only his love.

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Humanity can't unite by itself. Let us be driven to it, as long as the fact is accomplished. I am sick of it all, Altmayer, sick of all our stupid history. I'm tired of trying to be an idealist with nothing to be idealistic over. Human beings are human beings and that's the nasty part of it.

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It is incorrectly noted that Thomas Edison invented 'push-ups' in 1878. Nikolai Tesla had in fact patented the activity three years earlier, under the name 'Tesla-cize.'

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You don't look like a private detective.

No private detective looks like a private detective. That's one of the first rules of private detection.

But if no private detective looks like a private detective, how does a private detective know what he's not supposed to look like?

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Life is like toilet, Mr. Flowers. Sometimes you have so much rubbish in your stomach, you have gigantic poo. So huge, of course, blocking toilet. Big panic. You trying flush. Poking with coat hanger. Use your finger. Too embarrassed ask for help. "My gosh, what shall I do?" But tell truth, Mr. Flowers. No problem if you ask for help. "Excuse me, I am have gigantic poo. Somebody please help for unblock my toilet." Of course. My gosh, so smelly, everybody terrified. Such a gigantic poo. So ashame. But help for flush is coming. Very clean for start again.

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It's all my fault. I've let everyone down. Mum, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't do it anymore. I can't do it anymore. I can't do it. Any of it. I can't. It's too hard. All of it. I can't. I don't know how to do it. I try and I want to be a normal person, but I just can't. I can't do it. I can't. Every time I think I'm gonna be okay, I just do something stupid and FUCK IT UP! And everyone gets cross at me. And I just feel like I just wanna die. I just wanna die... Oh, God, ages... Ages. I just... I feel like I'm not meant to be here. I feel like everyone hates me. You hate me. You wish I hadn't been born. Yes, you do! I beat you up. I'm horri—I broke your fucking finger. I broke your finger on purpose. Oh, my God, I can't do it any more! It's too loud! It's too loud. I just wanna die. I just wanna die. Yes, I do. Yes, I do.

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If it hasn't exactly been a good day for producer Lucy Freeman, for Ian it's been worst than good, and it's about to get worse than bad.

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Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life. It will produce thorns and thistles for you, and you will eat the plants of the field. By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return.

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Maybe when you've had a bit more experience, you might have a more measured view of what love actually means. Because, you know, we all like to think of love as this huge, beautiful thing that sweeps you along, but, actually, it's not that. It's coordinating diaries and washing dishes together.

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She was just trying to break the curse. She was trying to protect her baby. She was trying to burn down all the fucking shit that came before because how else is she meant to survive. It's like with your dad. It's like me with you. It's love. These pictures are about love. They're not about murder they're about love. That's all I've been trying to say. It's just love that's what it is. Cos how else can we survive? It's impossible. We're all just little babies. We all need to be set free. I know how. I know how to do it without killing everyone. I know how to do it. Cos I'm the Auserwahlte. It's not Bertha, it's not Felix, it's not you because you're too weak. But I can do it. I can do this. I can take this... It's the fucking music. It's the music, that's the spell, that's what's going to... break the curse.

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Okay, well... here's something. It looks like we can't actually have a functioning wind turbine, but is there a way that we could have a wind turbine that functions as a beacon for everything a wind turbine stands for?

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Closed in the ruins of my room, it seems gravity increases its grip on me, focusing all my energy inward--engulfing the nebulous fire of anger in my black, pulsing heart--squeezing it remorselessly into glittering diamonds of pure, mathematical fury. It is as if, turning over a stone, I have revealed the meaning of my hatred. And that hatred is beautiful. If he could read my mind--demon or no--he would be afraid. I owe him a monsterous debt, and I swear--between the despair of Heaven and the hope of Hell--that debt will be paid in full.

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Why do you wear a mask and hood?

I think everybody will in the near future. They're terribly comfortable.

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Nana Grubb lugged the damn diary of dreams

To the edge of the crack where the swamp water steamed

Such odious prose, such horrible sadness,

Such terrible proof of Mr. Grubb's madness.

She clenched her claws round the cursed journal

And hurled it down to the pit infernal.

That Mr. Grubb's sorrow and fear and pain

Would never be heard of or witnessed again.

Then a quick gust of wind caught the hem of her dress

And tossed the dear fossil straight over the edge.

The pages came free, one by one, all in sequence

And fluttered about, like a flock of mad secrets.

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It's intellectual anarchy, my dear.

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