Arkham Quotes

Enough madness? Enough? And how do you measure madness? - The Joker

How had I ever thought he was cute? He so needed to be locked up in an insane asylum somewhere. Too bad Batman wasn't here to come and drag his ass off to Arkham.

Sometimes it’s only madness that makes us what we are.

I run blindly through the madhouse ... And I cannot even pray ... For I have no God.

Afraid? Batman's not afraid of anything. It's me. I'm afraid. I'm afraid that The Joker may be right about me. Sometimes…I question the rationality of my actions. And I’m afraid that when I walk through those asylum gates... when I walk into Arkham and the doors close behind me... it’ll be just like coming home.

Sometimes... sometimes I think the Asylum is a head. We're inside a huge head that dreams us all into being. Perhaps it's your head, Batman. Arkham is a looking glass... and we are you.

It's salt. Why don't you sprinkle some on me, honey? Aren't I just good enough to eat?

True love is finding someone whose demons play well with yours" - The Joker

Then I reminded myself that all intelligent children suffer bad dreams.

The moon is so beautiful. It's a big silver dollar, flipped by God. And it landed scarred side up, see? So He made the world.

Einstein was wrong! I'M the speed of light CRACKING through shivery rainbows and GOD the sky whirls and withers like a melting RAINBOW!

It's quite possible we may actually be looking at some kind of super-sanity here. A brilliant new modification of human perception, more suited to urban life at the end of the twentieth century...He creates himself each day. He sees himself as the lord of misrule and the world as a theatre of the absurd.

I see now the virtue in madness, for this country knows no law nor any boundary. I pity the poor shades confined to the Euclidean prison that is sanity

I should say I am far more cleverer than any of the people who put me here. As a matter of fact, I could leave any time I wanted. It's only a doll house after all. Anyway, I don't mind. I like dolls. Particularly the live ones.

Routine is important, I think. A good routine diverts the mind from morbid imaginings.

And I ask him why he cuts his arms with a razor. "Just fo feel. Just to feel something.

And when she talks of Carrie White her face takes on an odd pinched look that is more like Lovecraft out of Arkham than Kerouac out of Southern Cal.

Oh, yes! Fill the churches with dirty thoughts! Introduce honesty to the White House! Write letters in dead languages to people you've never met! Paint filthy words on the foreheads of children! Burn your credit cards and wear high heels! Asylum doors stand open! Fill the suburbs with murder and rape! Divine madness! Let there be ecstasy, ecstasy in the streets! Laugh and the world laughs with you!

I'm thinking of killing everyone whose name is a palindrome

West of Arkham the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever cut.

Say, what's the question mark for? Sexual identity?

it's the lies that get us through life, right?

That book is filthy. Wicked. Dangerous. Yet it feels so comforting to own it.

Madness is born in the blood. It is my birthright.

There are no heroes and there are no villains. There are just opposing points of view. That's all history is... the viscously long battle between world views. And eventually -Finally- no matter how much it may hurt, Truth wins out. Every. Damn. Time.

Doctor Harleen Quinzel, one of Arkham’s most brilliant and dedicated psychiatrists, was no more. Electroshock. What a wonderful way of destroying a soul, the Joker thought as he watched Quinzel’s eyes roll up into their sockets and dribble pour from between her lips.

Batman can create as many crappy trophies as he wants. They don't change a thing. They’re built on lies and sand. And they will fall. Like his whole damn world. It’s important for me to stay on mission. No distractions. I’m here to make sure I can follow his moves throughout the city. Not get caught up in his imaginary nostalgia. There’s nothing to be gained getting caught up in his gravity. Nothing.

Brutish strength combined with the elegance of the gambit—it was the mark of a true genius. Anyone could achieve power with a gun or a knife. The perfect riddle commanded its recipient to act in one way, and one way only. There was no greater mastery—and that was what the Riddler sought to achieve over Batman—absolute mastery.

BATMAN: ARKHAM KNIGHT – THE OFFICIAL NOVELIZATION

In the evening I asked old people in Arkham about the blasted heath, and what was meant by that phrase “strange days” which so many evasively muttered.

Witch-cursed, legend-haunted Arkham, whose huddled, sagging gambrel roofs and crumbling Georgian balustrades brood out the centuries beside the darkly muttering Miskatonic.

He openned the door that he assumed was the garage only to find himself in the pantry. crap. "Um . . . grabbing some Pop-Tarts for the road," Nick said, covering his mistake. Still, they both stared at him as if he'd escaped Arkham Asylum. Offering them a fake smile, he grabbed the pastries, crossed himself, and hoped he got the next door correct. Nope. Bathroom. With a pain-filled groan at his rampant stupidity, Nick pretended to use it before he tried again. At least there were only two more doors to go. Fifty-fifty chance. Thankfully, third time was the charm.

West of Arkham the hills rise wild and there are valleys with deep woods that no ax has ever cut. There are dark, narrow glens where the trees slope fantastically, where thin brooklets trickle without ever having caught the glimpse of sunlight.

Arkham Asylum, founded by Dr. Amadeus Arkham in the early nineteen hundreds, was named after Elizabeth Arkham, Amadeus’ mother. Elizabeth had long suffered from mental illness and eventually committed suicide, although legend had it that Amadeus had actually euthanized her. Whatever

I am the reason the criminals breathe easier when the sun rises.

You gotta be there. So let me kill you and get on with it. I mean, everyone gets to kill a Robin eventually. And today it’s my turn.

When my avocation became my vocation I was set free. Writing, at first, was a hobby that I loved dearly. It turned into a serious endeavor several years ago when I started writing screenplays. Unfortunately selling one out of every ten was not very lucrative. Success comes in many forms and my poor returns from screenplays matured my writing style, ultimately affording me the ability to author hundreds of magazine articles that generated a decent paycheck. Fast forward to today and I have published my first novel “The Alchemist’s Notebook.” It is a whirlwind story in the style of H. P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos that takes the reader from Vietnam to Innsmouth then Arkham and eventually to Europe wherein chaos and screaming terror awaits all living creatures on our planet. I pledge to keep the reader on pins and needles hoping that sanity and normalcy will return. “The Alchemist’s Notebook” and all future novels along with my blogs will deal exclusively with that genre.

Batman… and… Robin?” Nightwing leaped at him. His legs wrapped around the man’s torso and he spun, throwing him across the room. “It’s Nightwing, you moron,” he protested. “Nightwing and Batman. Robin was a little kid. Couldn’t have been more than four feet tall. Used

Enjoy yourself out there... in the asylum.

There is Providence, quaint and lordly on its seven hills over the blue harbour, with terraces of green leading up to steeples and citadels of living antiquity, and Newport climbing wraith-like from its dreaming breakwater. Arkham is there, with its moss-grown gambrel roofs and the rocky rolling meadows behind it; and antediluvian Kingsport hoary with stacked chimneys and deserted quays and overhanging gables, and the marvel of high cliffs and the milky-misted ocean with tolling buoys beyond.

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It's Arkham, you make your own fun.

I take to patrolling the corridors between the hours of three and four in the morning. I visit the secret room often in order that I might keep my journal up to date. Routine is important, I think. A good routine diverts the mind from morbid imaginings. Sometimes I am sure I hear hysterical laughter from a cell I know to be empty. 
 I tape over the mirror in my study. The laughter ceases. 

And I return to my ritual perambulations. My movements through the house have become as formalized as ballet and I feel that I have become an essential part of some incomprehensible biological process. The house is an organism, hungry for madness. It is the maze that dreams. And I am lost.

THAT IS NOT DEAD WHICH CAN ETERNAL LIE /AND WITH STRANGE AEONS, EVEN DEATH MAY LIVE AND LET DIE

Miss Tuppenceworth, W.’s pretty blonde secretary, looked out the window of her office, which served as antechamber to her superior’s sanctum sanctorum. “Why is it that whenever H.P. shows up, the sky is suddenly filled with multi-colored silhouettes of shapely women flying about? One can see outlines of guns among the female forms, and hear music filled with saxophones and trumpets. And there’s this sort of swirly gun-barrel shifting to and fro…Decidedly odd.

1. Dark Lord of the Screaming Abyss 2. Protector of the Night-Gaunts 3. Messenger of the Crypt Gods 4. Vile Master of the Blood-Soaked Torments 5. Father of the Black Scorpions 6. Uncle of the Flesh-Eating Hawks 7. Second-Cousin of the Accursed Pharaoh with Pubic Dandruff 8. Niles Lathotep 9. The Killjoy of Kadath 10. Discount Abdul, the Persian Carpet King—Half-Off This Week Only 11. Keeper of the Sacred Camel-Toes 12. He Who Doth Swing Both Ways in Darkness 13. Minty Belasco 14. Big Jake

My hands shivered like twin albino bats in an Antarctic ice-cave, assuming such caves served as lodging for such bats. I’m not really sure. They’d have to be pretty hardy bats. What would they eat?

If what’s behind that door is so terrible, shouldn’t we carry a machete or two? A kitchen knife? An especially sturdy cocktail umbrella?” “There is no weapon on Earth one could wield against such terror!” he moaned. “Oh, I see. Then we should just go in unarmed. Well, fine. Lead the way.

No, that watch doubles as a high-power flame-thrower and a bidet.

I happened to run into Anton at the Arkham Public Library just a few days later. I was walking down a shadowy hallway when he came bustling out of the Forbidden, Unspeakably Dangerous, Never-To-Be-Checked-Out-By-Anyone Section with a notepad in his hand

And at 10:23 p.m. Central Time, a cornfield in Buttercup, Iowa split open and It emerged: that selfsame deity that the Pre-Atlantean, Post-Lemurian Serpent Priests addressed by Seven-Thousand-and-Twelve Sacred Names (Number Eleven translating to “Whatever It Is, We Wish It Would Just Leave Us Alone”); that lugubrious critter known to the ancient Aztecs as He-Who-Drips-Sweat-All-Over-Our-Nice-Clean-Temple, to whom they sacrificed the lymph nodes of their enemies after they’d given the hearts to gods they actually liked.

Reginald’s furnishings, I noted, were solid oak. Oak! Now there was a wood you could trust. I noticed something odd about his bookcase—something that caused a small but sharp bell of warning to ring in my mind. Most of the volumes on its shelves were quite old, and bound in rotting human skin. Finally I noticed the thing that had set off my inner alarm: the bookends were mismatched. One was a human skull and the other was a kitschy little plastic owl. Certainly plastic has no place in the decor of a gentleman’s study.

The thing looked like an especially unsavory cross between a mangy hound-dog, a Tasmanian devil, and a scruffy, drug-addled, middle-aged British rock star.

Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets

What’s that you say, girl? A foamy-mouthed kitty bit your ass and now you’ve gone mondo batshit?

I only hope you are never tempted to venture into the library’s Forbidden, Unspeakably Dangerous, Never-To-Be-Checked-Out-By-Anyone Section to peruse our secret copy of that most shocking and insanity-inducing of ancient tomes, typeset at a point-size convenient to those with impaired vision—the Large-Print Necronomicon!

THE SLITHERING QUIVER OF THE RIVER LIZARD'S TWISTED LIVER-BLISTERS In the city of Phlemuria, three miles west of Ulthar in the Elder Dreamlands, folks had a saying: the god of Fate is no more than a capricious old pig-herder made cranky by an embarrassing rash.

Yeah, that was how they rolled in Gotham City, the world’s biggest cult, where everyone was brainwashed to worship Batman and hate anybody he hated. Anyone who didn’t was declared criminal or crazy and ended up in Iron Heights or Arkham Asylum while Batman flitted around town, cosplaying and ego-tripping.

Fear. He’d seen something similar a few years back in Boston, during the height of the Spanish Flu epidemic, when anyone could be infected and you were scared to shake a friendly hand for fear of the invisible contagion. Thousands had died in the space of a few months, and the deadly terror that had spread in the wake of the disease had isolated whole swathes of the population as people became too afraid to travel. A siege mentality had pervaded the city, with the very lowest of Boston’s inhabitants bearing the brunt of the deadly plague. By the end of the epidemic, God only knew how many had died. It had taken at least a year before the mood of the city returned to normal and people began to breathe the air like they were enjoying it, instead of fearing it might kill them. The deserted streets, the boarded up stores and the people crossing the street to avoid you: that was Boston at the height of the epidemic.  And that was how Arkham felt right now. Like a city that people wanted to abandon, but were too afraid or too poor to leave.

That was when I waked half of Arkham with my screaming as I plunged madly up from the abyss of sleep.

There was a correspondence course he failed to complete; a trip to the castles on the Rhine, Rhone, and Danube that took six years of his savings. Weekend flights to New England in desperate search of spectral Arkham, spring vacations in Haiti, Christmas in rural England, and a cold white dawn at Stonehenge. Midnights walking the streets in storms. And a year ago, the beginning of the collection that walled his study, reading and examining, hunting for a clue to the authors’ ability to write eloquently about the unspeakable, darkly about the commonplace; over and over and over again until he had memorized nearly every florid, majestic, purple, and bitter bitten paragraph. Nightmares. Sweat. The sounds of blood dripping whenever he turned a page.

All thouhgts of grandeur were delusions...until one made them real.

One could prefix the words deranged lunatic insists to any headline, and only increase its accuracy. It’s practically implied, and the reading public would hardly read the little phrase as a disclaimer these days.

After all,” I thought, “if life is ALWAYS getting worse, then right now is NEVER all bad?” A happy thought that served me well…