Mexican Gothic Quotes

Books, moonlight, melodrama.

A woman who is not liked is a bitch, and a bitch can hardly do anything: all avenues are closed to her.

The world might indeed be a cursed circle; the snake swallowed its tail and there could be no end, only an eternal ruination and endless devouring.

It was easy to kiss someone when it didn’t matter; it was more difficult when it might be meaningful.

Noemí’s father said she cared too much about her looks and parties to take school seriously, as if a woman could not do two things at once.

...she was trapped between competing desires, a desire for a more meaningful connection and the desire to never change. She wished for eternal youth and endless merriment.

So I'll be wed in the Church of the Holy Incestuous Mushroom?

One could construct a hundred different narratives, it didn’t make them true.

She was the snake biting its tail. She was a dreamer, eternally bound to a nightmare, eyes closed even when her eyes had turned to dust.

The future, she thought, could not be predicted, and the shpae of things could not be divined. To think otherwise was absurd. But they were young that morning, and they could cling to hope. Hope that the world could be remade, kinder and sweeter.

Our bodies hide so many mysteries and they tell so many stories without a single word

It’s no good telling tales without a drink.

She wanted to be liked. Perhaps this explained the parties, the crystalline laughter, the well-coiffed hair, the rehearsed smile. She thought that men such as her father could be stern and men could be cold like Virgil, but women needed to be liked or they’d be in trouble. A woman who is not liked is a bitch, and a bitch can hardly do anything: all avenues are closed to her.

You’re very silly or very brave, living in a haunted house.

Marriage could hardly be like the passionate romances one read about in books. It seemed to her, in fact, a rotten deal. Men would be solicitous and well behaved when they courted a woman, asking her out to parties and sending her flowers, but once they married, the flowers wilted.

Noemí, just because there are no ghosts it doesn’t mean you can’t be haunted. Nor that you shouldn’t fear the haunting.

Beauty attracts beauty and begets beauty.

I have seen the world, and in seeing it I’ve noticed people seem bound to their vices.

The future could not be predicted, and the shape of things could not be divined. To think otherwise was absurd. But they were young that morning and they could cling to hope. Hope that the world could be remade kinder and sweeter.

It was the house that disfigured the land.

In a sense all dreams foretell events, but some more clearly than others.

The walls speak to me. They tell me secrets. Don’t listen to them, press your hands against your ears, Noemí. There are ghosts. They’re real. You’ll see them eventually.

She wanted a fairytale and I wanted to give her that.

For all your intelligence, you don’t think sometimes

Loyalty to the family is rewarded, and impertinence is punished. Remember that and you shall be very happy.

I like photos better. They capture the thing in the moment.” “But painting is the repeated exposure to a thing. It captures the essence of the object.

Et Verbum caro factum est,

What resentments could sprout in a young heart when all affection and love had been denied?

But she liked this man’s quirks and imperfections, the lack of playboy smarts coupled with a quiet intelligence.

but women needed to be liked or they’d be in trouble. A woman who is not liked is a bitch, and a bitch can hardly do anything: all avenues are closed to her.

Life bores you, Noemí. You like a hint of danger, but back home they wrap you in gauze, to keep you from breaking. But you’d like to break, wouldn’t you? You play with people and you wish someone would have the guts to play with you.

Noemí was struck with the desire to lean forward and kiss him, a feeling like wishing to light a match, a burning, bright, and eager feeling. Yet she hesitated. It was easy to kiss someone when it didn't matter; it was more difficult when it might be meaningful.

But he needed a story and she needed to tell one. So she did, until he didn’t care whether she was lying or speaking the truth.

Agnes. Driven to madness, driven to anger, driven to despair, and even now a sliver of that woman remained, and that sliver was still screaming in agony. She was the snake biting its tail.

It wasn't made for love, the house.' 'Any place is made for love,' she protested. 'Not this place and not us. You look back two, three generations, as far as you can. You won't find love. We are incapable of such a thing.

I’ve never understood that. Once, twice, thrice removed. Who keeps track of such a thing? I always figure if they come to my birthday party we are related and that’s it, no need to pull out the genealogy chart.

yelling,

So I’ll be wed in the Church of the Holy Incestuous Mushroom?” she intoned. “I doubt that’s valid.

Vice, Noemí thought and was reminded of the nuns who had overseen her education. She’d learned rebellion while muttering the rosary.

It was not a haunting. It was possession and not even that, but something she couldn’t even begin to describe. The creation of an afterlife, furnished with the marrow and the bones and the neurons of a woman, made of stems and spores.

Men would be solicitous and well behaved when they courted a woman, asking her out to parties and sending her flowers, but once they married, the flowers wilted. You didn’t have married men posting love letters to their wives.

I liked her softness, her romantic notions. She wanted a fairy tale, and I wanted to give her that.

was pleasurable, but in a terrible way, like when she’d had a cavity and kept pressing her tongue against

She’d learned rebellion while muttering the rosary.

....,_,___ ' '-' Like feeding an animal madder plants: it dyes the bones red, it stains everything inside crimson, she thought.

Wood and glass and a roof do not constitute a world.

Everything in High Place was gnarled and begrimed, but he'd been able to grow bright and mindful, like an odd plant that is carried onto the wrong flower bed.

But painting is the repeated exposure to a thing. It captures the essence of the object.

there could be no end, only an eternal ruination and endless devouring.

Like the old car that had picked Noemí up, the town clung to the dregs of splendor.

Dark Meat, she thought. Nothing but meat, she was the equivalent of a cut of beef inspected by the butcher and wrapped up in waxed paper. An exotic little something to stir the loins and the mouth water.

She had experience dealing with irritating men. They did not fluster her. She had learned, by navigating cocktail parties and meals at restaurants, that showing any kind of reaction to their crude remarks emboldened them.

The future, she thought, could not be predicted, and the shape of things could not be divined. To think otherwise was absurd. But they were young that morning, and they could cling to hope. Hope that the world could be remade, kinder and sweeter. So she kissed him a second time, for luck. When he looked at her again his face was filled with such an extraordinary gladness, and the third time she kissed him it was for love.

. . . I like photos better. They capture the thing in the moment." "But painting is the repeated exposure to a thing. It captures the essence of the object.

Perhaps chirping even more loudly, the shadow of death creating a frenzy of need inside their small bodies, urging them on toward their own destruction.

Only in a place such as this, in a cemetery with dropping willows and mist licking at the stones, could he acquire any substance.

The land kept its riches in the dark, sprouting no trees with fruit.

She wondered if he kept a pair of calipers to measure his guests' skulls.

What are your thoughts on the intermingling of superior and inferior types?” he asked, ignoring her discomfort.

Beauty attracts beauty and begets beauty

It’s the right time, Noemí thought. A tree ripens and one must pluck the fruit.

Men were always so afraid of tears, of having a hysterical woman on their hands.

At the entrance there had been a painting or a mirror on a wall, and it's oval outline was visible against the wallpaper, like a lonesome fingerprint at the scene of a crime

The serpent does not devour its tail, it devours everything around it, voracious, its appetite never quenched.

Francis drove up a narrow road that climbed deeper into the mountains, the air growing rawer, the mist intensifying. She rubber her hands together.

Yet the thought of anyone more substantial made her nervous, for she was trapped between competing desires, a desire for a more meaningful connection and the desire to never change. She wished for eternal youth and endless merriment.

She thought that men such as her father could be stern and men could be cold like Virgil, but women needed to be liked or they’d be in trouble. A woman who is not liked is a bitch, and a bitch can hardly do anything: all avenues are closed to her.

and anyway, all the people in the family seemed to have that similar physiognomy, which she was dubbing in her head “the Doyle look.” Like the Habsburg jaw of Charles II, only not quite as concerning. Now that had been a case of severe mandibular prognathism.

Old would have been an inaccurate word to describe him. He was ancient, his face gouged with wrinkles, a few sparse hairs stubbornly attached to his skull. He was very pale too, like an underground creature. A slug, perhaps. His veins contrasted with his pallor, thin, spidery lines of purple and blue.

She felt awful, and she remembered how Catalina had told her she was capable of leaving deep scars in people if she didn’t watch her scalding tongue. For all your intelligence, you don’t think sometimes, Catalina had said. How true. There she was, making stories up in her head when he had said nothing cruel to her.

Just because there are no ghosts it doesn't mean you can't be haunted. Nor that you shouldn't fear the haunting.

And you think you have a special power simply because my uncle thinks you possess a pretty face. But that's not power. It's a liability.

home. Locals call them duraznillos

When you transplant a flower, you must consider the soil, mustn’t you?

What? Are you suddenly bashful?” he asked. “Last time we were here it wasn’t the case.” “That was a dream,” she stammered. “It doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.

When he looked at her again his face was filled with such an extraordinary gladness, and the third time she kissed him it was for love.

One face blended into another. She would not have been able to tell them apart even if she’d looked closely.

And I am Howard Doyle, Virgil’s father. Although you’ve guessed that already.

Catalina’s mother was from France. My father is from Veracruz and my mother from Oaxaca. We are Mazatec on her side. What is your point?” she asked flatly.

Then, in Mexico City, at your parties, you spend the whole time feeling people don't like you?' 'I spend the time drinking good champagne, dear boy,' she said.

She thought Howard looked like an insect and Florence was an insectivorous plant. But Virgil Doyle, he was a carnivore, high up the food chain.

easy to kiss someone when it didn’t matter; it was more difficult when it might be meaningful.

like in Wuthering Heights?” Noemí asked. Catalina had worn out the pages of that book.

Our bodies hide so many mysteries and they tell so many stories without a single word, do they not?

I’ll be sure to discuss with him the preapproved subjects you dictate. Perhaps we can erase all the cities on the terrestrial globe and pretend they don’t exist,” Noemí

Noemí liked to flirt and she was good at it, but she could tell by the renewed redness in Francis’s cheeks that he was a novice at this.

I wish to leave High Place. Can you tell someone to drive me back to town?” she asked quickly.

She wished for eternal youth and endless merriment.

father said she cared too much about her looks and parties to take school seriously, as if a woman could not do two things at once.

You expect to win my praise this way, I think. It would take more." "Your respect, perhaps. Not your praise." "Why would you need my respect?" "I don't.

Într-un fel, toate visele anunță un eveniment, dar unele le anunță mai clar decât altele.

It was pleasurable, but in a terrible way, like when she’d had a cavity and kept pressing her tongue against it.

Catalina had told her she expected more. True romance, she said. True feelings.

Sor Juana.

And the English ones,” Noemí countered, but she didn’t bother denying the rest of the accusations because she did indeed cycle through admirers on a regular basis and was quite capable of wearing four outfits in a single day.

She had a friend who swore by Jung, but Noemí had never understood the whole “the dream is the dreamer” bit, nor had she cared to interpret her dreams. Now she recalled one particular thing Jung wrote: everyone carries a shadow. And like a shadow the woman’s words hung over Noemí

The house shows you. The house loves you. Are you enjoying our hospitality? Would you like to play with me?” he asked. “No.” “A pity,” he said, revealing the third card: a single, empty cup. “You’ll still renounce yourself in the end. You’re already like us, you’re family. You don’t know it.” “You don’t scare me, you piece of shit monster, with your dreams and your tricks. This isn’t real, and you’ll never keep me here.” “You really think that?” he asked, and the boils rippled down his back. A trickle of black liquid, as black as ink, dripped onto the floor beneath him. “I can make you do anything I want.

Marriage could hardly be like the passionate romances one read about in books. It seemed to her, in fact, a rotten deal. Men would be solicitous and well behaved when they courted a woman, asking her out to parties and sending her flowers, but once they married, the flowers wilted. You didn’t have married men posting love letters to their wives.

Noemi wondered if High Place had robbed her of her illusions, or if they were meant to be shattered all along. Marriage could hardly be like the passionate romances one read about in books. It seemed to her, in fact, a rotten deal. Men would be solicitous and well behaved when they courted a woman, asking her out to parties and sending her flowers, but once they married. the flowers wilted. You didn't have married men posting love letters to their wives. That's why Noemí tended to cycle through admirers. She worried a man would be briefly impressed with her luster, only to lose interest later on. There was also the excitement of the chase, the delight that flew through her veins when she knew a suitor was bewitched with her. Besides, boys her age were dull, always talking about the parties they had been to the previous week or the one they were planning to go to the week after. Easy, shallow men. Yet the thought of anyone more substantial made her nervous, for she was trapped between competing de sires, a desire for a more meaningful connection and the desire to never change. She wished for eternal youth and endless merriment.

She worried a man would be briefly impressed with her luster, only to lose interest later on. There was also the excitement of the chase, the delight that flew through her veins when she knew a suitor was bewitched with her. Besides, boys her age were dull, always talking about the parties they had been to the previous week or the one they were planning to go to the week after. Easy, shallow men. Yet the thought of anyone more substantial made her nervous, for she was trapped between competing desires, a desire for a more meaningful connection and the desire to never change. She wished for eternal youth and endless merriment.