Brides Corpse Quotes

One of the things that we were trying to do with this show was the complexities of relationships and love. There is both passion and longing and a bittersweet quality to it that is a part of life.

Can a heart break, once it's stopped beating?

Why would you want to go up there, when people are dying to get down here?

WORDS ARE TEETH. AND THEY EAT ME ALIVE. FEED ON MY CORPSE INSTEAD.

I've spent so long in the darkness, I'd almost forgotten how beautiful the moonlight is.

If I touch a burning candle I can feel no pain If you cut me with a knife It's still the same And I know her heart is beating And I know that I am dead Yet the pain here that I feel Try and tell me it's not real And it seems I still have a tear to shed

My father (Theodore Roosevelt) always wanted to be the corpse at every funeral, the bride at every wedding and the baby at every christening.

Die, die we all pass away, But don't wear a frown coz it's really okay, And you might try to hide, And you might try to pray, But we all end up remains of the day.

But then on meeting you, I felt I should be with you always.

Love isn't a smiling bride who holds a colorful bouquet and gazes lovingly at her husband; it's a corpse-littered battlefield where the walking wounded have to keep searching for survivors or die themselves.

Grace Reed: the bride at every wedding, the corpse at every wake.

Theodore Rex. Roosevelt was driven by ambition, idealism and vanity. As his daughter famously remarked: “My father always wanted to be the corpse at every funeral, the bride at every wedding, and the baby at every christening.

When do you think your future husband will try to kill you?” Owen asks conversationally, looking straight ahead. “Tomorrow? Next week?” “Who’s to say.” “Within the month, for sure.” “For sure.” “One has to wonder if the Weres will bury your corpse or just, you know. Eat it.” “One has to.

On Broad Street, ravens lurk on the Divine Lorraine Hotel as if to say Always a corpse flower, never a bride.

Logan didn’t know which was worse – discovering your husband was a lying, adulterous bastard, or a dismembered corpse.

Father [Teddy] always wanted to be the bride at every wedding, the corpse at every funeral, and the baby at every christening.

the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every funeral,

His eldest daughter, Alice, once described her father as wanting to be the “bride at every wedding, and the corpse at every funeral.”1

But that was Lenore: the bride at every wedding, the corpse at every funeral.

Daenerys Targaryen loved her captain, but that was the girl in her, not the queen. Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it. Daemon Blackfyre loved the first Daenerys, and rose in rebellion when denied her. Bittersteel and Bloodraven both loved Shiera Seastar, and the Seven Kingdoms bled. The Prince of Dragonflies loved Jenny of Oldstones so much he cast aside a crown, and Westeros paid the bride price in corpses...Her love for Daario is poison.

Parts of rural China are seeing a burgeoning market for female corpses, the result of the reappearance of a strange custom called "ghost marriages." Chinese tradition demands that husbands and wives always share a grave. Sometimes, when a man died unmarried, his parents would procure the body of a woman, hold a "wedding," and bury the couple together... A black market has sprung up to supply corpse brides. Marriage brokers—usually respectable folk who find brides for village men—account for most of the middlemen. At the bottom of the supply chain come hospital mortuaries, funeral parlors, body snatchers—and now murderers. —"China's Corpse Brides: Wet Goods and Dry Goods" The Economist, July 26, 2007

When I select my wedding gown, I am reminded of the story of the young woman who wished to go to a dance with her lover, but could not afford a dress. She purchased a lovely white frock from a secondhand shop, and then later fell ill and passed from this earth. A doctor who examined her in her final days discovered she had died from exposure to embalming fluid. It turned out that an unscrupulous undertaker's assistant had stolen the dress from the corpse of a bride.

So now I was a beauty editor. In some ways, I looked the part of Condé Nast hotshot—or at least I tried to. I wore fab Dior slap bracelets and yellow plastic Marni dresses, and I carried a three-thousand-dollar black patent leather Lanvin tote that Jean had plunked down on my desk one afternoon. (“This is . . . too shiny for me,” she’d explained.) My highlights were by Marie Robinson at Sally Hershberger Salon in the Meatpacking District; I had a chic lavender pedicure—Versace Heat Nail Lacquer V2008—and I smelled obscure and expensive, like Susanne Lang Midnight Orchid and Colette Black Musk Oil. But look closer. I was five-four and ninety-seven pounds. The aforementioned Lanvin tote was full of orange plastic bottles from Rite Aid; if you looked at my hands digging for them, you’d see that my fingernails were dirty, and that the knuckle on my right hand was split from scraping against my front teeth. My chin was broken out from the vomiting. My self-tanner was uneven because I always applied it when I was strung out and exhausted—to conceal the exhaustion, you see—and my skin underneath the faux-glow was full-on Corpse Bride. A stylist had snipped out golf-ball-size knots that had formed at the back of my neck when I was blotto on tranquilizers for months and stopped combing my hair. My under-eye bags were big enough to send down the runway at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week: I hadn’t slept in days. I hadn’t slept for more than a few hours at a time in months. And I hadn’t slept without pills in years. So even though I wrote articles about how to take care of yourself—your hair, your skin, your nails—I was falling apart.

I don’t have to tell you, once you get a corpse really caught up in conversation, your battle’s half over.

white lilies, the kind you would give to a bride or a corpse.

Above the fire place hung an enlargement of the nuptials of Mr Fairfax, in which the gentleman himself looked cowed, his bride frightened, and the mother of the bride sternly triumphant.

Then Penny came with Tate’s lunch. “Moving along, Rose. I need the aisle free and your ass is in my way. And this table is for two, so don’t even think about sitting here. I know you’re going for that Corpse Bride look, but not even you’re skinny enough to fit your bony ass there. Now move it.

Now simply wasn't the time to stray from comfortable paths. I also didn't want any first-kiss kind of stories to involve the phrase "a few feet from a fresh corpse." I'm particular that way.

Then you repeat. The thing that goes badly wrong means that the someone we like has to take another step to get around the bad wrongness and back toward the something he wants VERY BADLY. He takes the next step, and everything goes even more badly wrong. Then he loses his map. Then his flashlight falls into a storm drain and he has an asthma attack and his seeing eye dog dies. Then the cop who pulls him over for speeding while driving drunk in the nude turns out to be the short-tempered father of the bride he is marrying tomorrow. Then it goes more badly wrong for the someone we like, much more badly. Then the party is attacked and scattered by a band of goblins, and then the Gollum is on his trail, and the lure of the Ring is slowly destroying his mind. Then he finds the blasted corpses of his foster parents killed by Imperial Storm Troopers, and his house burnt to the ground. Then Lex Luthor chains a lump of Kryptonite around his neck and pushes him into a swimming pool and fires twin stealth atomic rockets at the San Andreas Fault in California and at Hackensack, New Jersey. And the spunky but beautiful girl reporter falls into a crack in the earth and dies. Then he is stung by Shelob and dies. Then he is maimed by Darth Vader and discovers his arch foe is his very own father, and he loses his grip and falls. Then he steps out unarmed to confront Lord Voldemort and dies. Then Judas Iscariot kisses him, Peter denounces him, he is humiliated, spat upon, whipped, betrayed by the crowd, tortured, sees his weeping mother, and dies a painful, horrible death and dies. Then he is thrown overboard and swallowed by a whale and dies. Then he gets help, gets better, arises from his swoon, is raised from the dead, the stone rolls back, the lucky shot hits the thermal exhaust port, and the Death Star blows up, the Dark Tower falls, the spunky but beautiful girl reporter is alive again due to a time paradox, and he is given all power under heaven and earth and either rides off into the sunset, or goes back to the bat-cave, or ascends into heaven, and we roll the credits.

Dear Professor, I hope you are well and busy. I myself have hitched a ride with the Brion military and am about to either be a part of an intergalactically important research team – once again, thanks for mentioning this – or an intergalactically important corpse. Your ever-unlucky student, Isolde.

The House was an architectural gem boasting four stories of crimson brick. Its steep, gabled roofs were supported by figurines of frowning satyrs and narrow-waisted caryatids. Huge, stained-glass bay windows graced its exterior. Rosebushes decorated the entrance, but they looked all wrong and far too bright, like lipstick on a corpse's mouth. In a slender turret, my gaze caught on an oddly shaped window. It was an eye. Blue and unblinking, the pupil a perfect circle of gold.

When he goes to a wedding he wants to be the bride, and when he goes to a funeral he wants to be the corpse. (Commentary about Teddy Roosevelt, who was president when he came to give away his niece to Franklin).

From Addy in Berlin came the news that all social gatherings had been banned except for weddings and funerals, where the number of people could not be higher than twelve. ("I wonder if that's counting the bride and groom," Cole's mother said, and his father joked: "How about the corpse?")

How about y'all take a seat now, and let's get right to business,' Muffy says as she tucks her cream-colored skirt beneath her in a ladylike manner. We all do as she suggested and take a seat, with the exception of Special Agent Lancaster, who declares he'd prefer to stand. I suppose if he sat down, the stick up his butt would lodge so deeply into his brain that he would instantly expire, and then we'd have another corpse on our hands, so it's just as well.

Roosevelt was driven by ambition, idealism and vanity. As his daughter famously remarked: “My father always wanted to be the corpse at every funeral, the bride at every wedding, and the baby at every christening.

Yes, absolutely, I would save him, if he had said 'true love,' but you misheard, whereas I, being an expert on the bellows cram, will tell you what any qualified tongue man will only be happy to verify—namely, that the f sound is the hardest for the corpse to master, and that it therefore comes out vuh, and what your friend said was 'to blove,' by which he meant, obviously, 'to bluff'—clearly he is either involved in a shady business deal or a card game and wishes to win, and that is certainly not reason enough for a miracle.