Creole Woman Quotes

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You see, a witch has to have a familiar, some little animal like a cat or a toad. He helps her somehow. When the witch dies the familiar is suppose to die too, but sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes, if it's absorbed enough magic, it lives on. Maybe this toad found its way south from Salem, from the days when Cotton Mather was hanging witches. Or maybe Lafitte had a Creole girl who called on the Black Man in the pirate-haven of Barataria. The Gulf is full of ghosts and memories, and one of those ghosts might very well be that of a woman with warlock blood who'd come from Europe a long time ago, and died on the new continent. And possibly her familiar didn't know the way home. There's not much room for magic in America now, but once there was room. ("Before I Wake...")
Henry Kuttner (Masters of Horror)
I have always cultivated a feeling of humane indulgence for foreigners. They do not possess our blessings and advantages, and they are, for the most part, brought up in the blind errors of Popery. It has also always been my precept and practice, as it was my dear husband's precept and practice before me (see Sermon XXIX. in the Collection by the late Rev. Samuel Michelson, M.A.), to do as I would be done by. On both these accounts I will not say that Mrs. Rubelle struck me as being a small, wiry, sly person, of fifty or thereabouts, with a dark brown or Creole complexion and watchful light grey eyes. Nor
Wilkie Collins (The Woman in White)
I was owned by Johnson Bell and born in New Orleans, in Loisiana. Cordin to the bill of sale, I'm eighty-six years old, and my master was a Frenchman and was real mean to me. He ran saloon and kept bad women. I don't know nothing 'bout my folks, if I had any, 'crept my mama. They done tell me she was a bad woman and a French Creole. I worked 'round master's saloon, kep everything cleaned up after they'd have all night drinkin' parties, men and women.
Born In Slavery: Slave Narratives from The Federal Writers Project
Marie the Second sported a bright tignon to signal her status and identity. She flaunted her turban, gold jewelry, and a proud walk that announced to all that saw her -- I am not white, not slave, not black, not French, not Negro, not African American. I am a free woman, a Creole of New Orleans.
Martha Ward (Voodoo Queen: The Spirited Lives of Marie Laveau)