Garth Marenghi Quotes

I know writers who use subtext, and they're all cowards.

He whisked off her shoes and panties in one movement, wild like an enraged shark. His bulky totem beating a seductive rhythm. Mary's body felt like it was burning, even though the room was properly air-conditioned. They tried all the positions - on top, doggy, and normal. Exhausted they collapsed onto the recently extended sofa-bed. Then a hell beast ate them.

Something was pouring from his mouth. He examined his sleeve. Blood? Blood! Crimson, copper smelling blood, his blood. Blood, blood, blood... And bits of sick.

My books are all essentially about ‘what ifs’. In Black Fang I asked: What if a rat could drive a bus? And what if it and its rat brethren took over and ate Parliament?

My books always say something, even if it’s just something simple like: 'Don’t genetically engineer crabs to be as big as men.

Mike stared in disbelief as his hands fell off.

But there was nothing I could do about it now, having only soup for arms.

She may well have whispered, ‘I’ll miss you,’ once I’d gone, but I couldn’t hear that from where I was, and as this is first-person narration and therefore not omniscient, we just won’t know.

The human spirit cannot be overcome. You know, as a writer, if you took away my paper, I would write on my heart. If you take away my ink, I'd write on the wind. (It wouldn't be an ideal way to work.)

The shriek sounded again. No way was it a human cry. No human vocal cord could produce such a bowel-shatteringly terrifying cacophony as that. An explosion of cracking, snapping, and clacking, like some sinister breakfast cereal.

Good job I loaded this with silver bullets from that box of silver bullets that was sitting on that table labelled “Silver Bullets” inside the “Silver Bullet’’ room I just entered.

Nullman had won a Nobel Prize that year. Nick had won Best Tentacle Death in the Nautical category of Port Talbot’s rescheduled ShockerCon for his killer coral novel, The Coral What Killed.

The human spirit cannot be overcome. You know, as a writer, if you took away my paper, I would write on my heart. If you take away my ink, I'd write on the wind... It wouldn't be an ideal way to work.

Roz, I need you to do this,’ I said, although I didn’t, in actual fact – that’s just a lazy phrase which helps steer a lost narrative back on course when readers are giving up in droves, and is, ironically, a major sign of bad writing. But I knew Roz would have encountered that a lot in her career as editor of books by authors other than me, and would no doubt have employed it herself to fix failing narratives in desperate situations, and thus I used it here to snap her attention back from her own internal abyss.

Thanks for the warning about leaving the car door open, by the way,’ Capello said, his manner towards Nick softening. ‘You know it makes sense, amigo. I guess we’re both learning something out here.’ He stared deeply at Capello. ‘Learning from each other.’ They gripped hands manfully.

Which is why, ultimately, we need to flame the place, Roz. And it's also why we should be eating more meat as a species. Each new vegetarian recipe Mankind allows is a recipe for disaster.' 'That sentence would be brilliantly funny, Nick. If it weren't also terrifyingly true.' 'I know, Roz. If only I could allow myself to appreciate the stark humor of it. Yet the reality is, these vegetarian fast-food outlets are the wild west of the modern convenience snack. And we've only just begun to realize the full implications of messing about with supposedly "healthy" ingredients that Mankind can neither taste nor understand.

A legion of Boners, who will rise upwards, forcing Mankind to do its bidding. Thrusting it deep into a titanic struggle for its very survival. Yes, soon my Boners will stand proud, hardened against the withering, wilted flock of flaccid prannies you call Humans. Against you, my Boners will rise, their spirits stiffened within, and at my command, they will plunge themselves into all who oppose them.’ Nick grinned wryly at Strain’s choice of words. The kid’s development must have been severely arrested. No one called humans ‘prannies’ these days.

The very same. But she never returned. Dwayne waited and waited, but always heard nothing. Eventually, he set off to see where she’d got to, knocked on Strain’s door . . . then he disappeared, too.’ ‘What, right there at the door, like David Copperfield?’ ‘No, no, he went in. Presumably then something happened to him inside the house, which stopped him coming out again alive, because he was never seen again. It wasn’t a magic trick, or anything like that.’ ‘I see. So, almost as if he was murdered, then?’ ‘Exactly,’ said Capello, fresh tears starting to flow.

I know writers who use subtext and they're all cowards.