Black The Ripper Quotes

You'd discover your morals aren't defined in terms such as black or white, good or bad. Most shy away from that level of introspection. It makes us realize we're villains. At least in part. We also all have the capacity to he heroes.

I love you, I thought, rallying against the blackness. More than all the stars in the universe. In this life and ever after. I love you.

Brick had been built upon brick, and all of it was smudged with thick black coal dust.

I thought (erroneously) that he dressed like Alfred Douglas, or the Comte de Montesquiou: beautiful starchy shirts with French cuffs; magnificent neckties; a black greatcoat that billowed behind him as he walked and made him look like a cross between a student prince and Jack the Ripper.

Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest-fst! it was as bright as glory and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about, away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs, where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know.

The figure in the cloak had turned, waving a fist in the air in a gesture of pure spite. ‘Damn you!’ My whispered curse came as I drew my revolver, pausing only to take aim. Two shots rang out, shattering the very air between us. I could not be sure if the heavy bullets had found their mark; the fiend whirling around behind a chimney-stack a moment after I fired. A groan from the blackness below-it was Holmes!. - John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and the Whitechapel Murders

Interestingly, a point that never emerged in the press but that Tim Donovan revealed to the police was that Annie had specifically "asked him to trust her" for that night's doss money. This "he declined to do." Had this incident become common knowledge, it's likely that Donovan would have faced an even worse public backlash for his role in Annie's demise. "You can find money for your beer, and you can't find money for your bed." the deputy keeper is said to have spoken in response to her request. Annie, not quite willing to admit defeat, or perhaps in a show of pride, responded with a sigh: "Keep my bed for me. I shan't be long." Ill and drunk, she went downstairs and "stood in the door for two or three minutes," considering her options. Like the impecunious lodger described by Goldsmith, she too would have been contemplating from whom among her "pals" it might have been "possible to borrow the halfpence necessary to complete {her} doss money." More likely, Annie was mentally preparing "to spend the night with only the sky for a canopy." She then set off down Brushfield Street, toward Christ Church, Spitalfields, where the homeless regularly bedded down. Her thoughts as she stepped out onto Dorest Street, as the light from Crossingham's dimmed at her back, can never be known. What route she wove through the black streets and to whom she spoke along the will never be confirmed. All that is certain is her final destination. Of the many tragedies that befell Annie Chapman in the final years of her life, perhaps one of the most poignant was that she needn't have been on the streets on that night, or on any other. Ill and feverish, she needn't have searched the squalid corners for a spot to sleep. Instead, she might have lain in a bed in her mother's house or in her sisters' care, on the other side of London. She might have been treated for tuberculosis; she might have been comforted by the embraces of her children or the loving assurances of her family. Annie needn't have suffered. At every turn there had been a hand reaching to pull her from the abyss, but the counter-tug of addiction was more forceful, and the grip of shame was just as strong. It was this that pulled her under, that had extinguished her hope and then her life many years earlier. What her murderer claimed on that night was simply all that remained of what drink had left behind.

As on any scale or spectrum, both ends have their poster-boy hall-of-famers. At one end we have the Sutcliffes, and Lecters, and Bundys – the Rippers, and Slashers, and Stranglers. While at the other we have the antipsychopaths: elite spiritual athletes like Tibetan Buddhist monks, who, through years of black-belt meditation in remote Himalayan monasteries, feel nothing but compassion. In fact, the latest research from the field of cognitive neuroscience suggests that the spectrum might be circular . . . that across the neural dateline of sanity and madness, the psychopaths and anti-psychopaths sit within touching distance of each other. So near, and yet so far.

I’ll nail you when I can finally prove who supplies you with cyanide. And then P.D. James would send Adam Daigliesh into finding another mystery killer who’s a cop. I’d suggest her a title… I’d suggest ‘Wole the Ripper!' Then Ms Cornwell would do an American adaptation of your story. She’d have no choice than to betray her Marino character by making him the mystery killer. But I guess she’d find difficulty in doing that because Marino isn’t Black.

ALPHA:     sleek black-and-brown female with a white fang-shaped mark below her ear (also known as Blade) BETA:     huge black-and-tan male (also known as Mace)       DAGGER—brown-and-tan male with a stubby face   PISTOL—black-and-tan female   BRUTE—black-and-tan male   RIPPER—black-and-tan female   REVOLVER—black-and-tan male   AXE—large black-and-brown male   SCYTHE—large black-and-tan female   BLUDGEON—massive black-and-tan male   MUSKET—black-and-brown male   CANNON—brown-and-tan female   LANCE—black-and-tan male   ARROW—young black-and-tan male OMEGA:     smaller black-and-brown male (also known as Bullet) PUPS:     FANG—brown-and-tan male LONE

What must it be like, knowing you raised the devil? It probably felt the same as knowing you sat by a monster day in and day out, never noticing the blackness of his soul.

Mr. Jones entered wearing his spotless black trench coat, the shiny black shoes, and the ridiculous hat that made him look like a figure from an 1880s London police sketch.

It felt so good, I did it again! Another drab in black and brown. The only thing scarlet about these women is their morals . . . and their blood

ychoA STARTLING DISCOVERY POINTS TO GUILT ... BUT OF WHAT? "The feeling lingered all the way to the landing, increasingly unkempt, slowly dialling up the mustiness of the odour. It wasn't blood but closer, in fact, to dried salts, with a subtle edge of wax and pine. I glanced around and found my answer ... The entryway had been sealed, lined with what appeared to be some sort of gauze, mixed with adhesive glue and applied to the entire outer frame. It was stiff, now cracked and crumbling where Mcnaughten had forced his way in and QUICKLY BEEN MET WITH REGRET." - Chief Inspector Fredrick Abberline, The Ripper Lives: Into the Black (4/10)

Despite the extraordinary efforts taken to bring the killer to justice, one of my great disappointments with the case was that we lacked the good fortune to give the people an ending, less so the sort it deserved. In turn, those vast and interconnected stories, provided and investigated, go without an ending to this day." ~ Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline, the Ripper Lives: To Catch a Killer (1/10)

I tried to act unphased, fighting back a cold sweat. At least the smell of blood was long gone, but that was little relief. It felt like we’d been travelling a straight line, yet daring a glimpse back, I saw with horror the light of the entrance was now completely absent in darkness, so much thicker and more terrifying than night’s black cloak. It was the dark of the earth we found ourselves trapped by, a dark that would claim us all in the end, and we were walking deeper still with a man who seemed disturbingly at ease amongst the crypt’s inhabitants. More than once, he swept the light into our eyes and away, leaving us dazzled, which made each inevitable return of his hulking form all the more ominous. What fearful things might we discover if we ran, I wondered? Even ignoring that, how far could we get against someone who filled the space like him and carried our only means of sight? As it has been said, in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man reigns as king. I looked to Macnaghten for reassurance and was met only by an empty void. ~ Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline, The Ripper Lives, Into the Black (4/10)

The lantern held aloft; brief flashes of our surroundings were all we were privy to. The masses of bones were brown now, jaws collapsed mid-scream and crammed into boxes three at a time. Wooden coffins crumbled effortlessly to time, exposing ancient, dusty remains, some crushed by metal plate armour. They nested bugs and creatures that need never know the light of day, that probed in the darkest reaches of the world, far away from human sights and sensibilities. The loose stone floor was looser than ever, the path narrower, threatening to roll ankles and cast curious wanderers into a pit of forgotten despair. Everything felt tighter around me as if the walls of skulls were closing in, but also supernaturally colder. ~ Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline, The Ripper Lives, Into the Black (4/10)

My nostrils flared, but a dreadful sound kept me from going any further—a whistle sharp enough to tear through the mists. It came back from the way I’d come, all the way back from the cursed Buck’s Row. I stopped. My arms fell by my side, the chill settling upon me like a blanket of ice. I knew immediately it was Macnaghten. He’d found something. What else could it be? I looked back into the fog, into the unknown, and in my heart, I knew the worst awaited me. It was another body. Another victim. Another failure for justice. It had to be. I set off to face it. And the fog closed in around me. ~ Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline, The Ripper Lives, Into the Black (4/10)

,Further, two steps forward, and all the chaos of the world above fell away, the smell of wet dirt and rat droppings rising to invade my nostrils. The familiar feeling froze me in fear. Immediately, alarm bells were ringing in my head. My hands trembled. I scanned every shadow for something I could not name but which crept out of view like an ambush. Macnaghten absently kicked a rock, and the tinkle as it skimmed the ground gave me cause to jump; I turned to face the sound, and something crunched underfoot - a lump of something dry and brittle, like petrified wood - reduced to dust. At that, the lantern tilted slightly, dangling, wavering ethereally in our direction. IT WAS AWARE OF US NOW. ~ Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline, The Ripper Lives: Into the Black (4/10)

Further, two steps forward, and all the chaos of the world above fell away, the smell of wet dirt and rat droppings rising to invade my nostrils. The familiar feeling froze me in fear. Immediately, alarm bells were ringing in my head. My hands trembled. I scanned every shadow for something I could not name but which crept out of view like an ambush. Macnaghten absently kicked a rock, and the tinkle as it skimmed the ground gave me cause to jump; I turned to face the sound, and something crunched underfoot - a lump of something dry and brittle, like petrified wood - reduced to dust. At that, the lantern tilted slightly, dangling, wavering ethereally in our direction. IT WAS AWARE OF US NOW. ~ Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline, The Ripper Lives, Into the Black (4/10)

Ghost Wail Square by Stewart Stafford There's a place that canines shun, In The Witching Hour stark, Dogs wandering misty avenues, Flee from Pandora's Park. Nicknamed Ghost Wail Square, Once whispered as Harlot's Row, Twilight cobblestones flooded with blood, Extinguished collusion's glow. Blue bloodlust inflamed there, In scented carriages and filthy lanes, Carnivores at the butcher's block, As they scattered ill-gotten gains. At Devil's Hour, the horror peaks, Death rattle knocks on doors, As screams for mercy fill the air, No rescue missions for whores. A killer sheltered 'neath potent wings, A skittish stranger to the noose, Then sewn mouths shall speak, As festering skeletons slip loose. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Twenty-five thousand black bears a year were slaughtered to make hats for the British Army, and fashionable London ladies liked their hummingbirds skinned alive, a technique which apparently added lustre to the chapeau.