Muse Of Nightmares Quotes

Once upon a time there was a silence that dreamed of becoming a song, and then I found you, and now everything is music.

Wishes don’t just come true. They’re only the target you paint around what you want. You still have to hit the bull’s-eye yourself.

There comes a certain point with a hope or a dream, when you either give it up or give up everything else. And if you choose the dream, if you keep on going, then you can never quit, because it's all you are.

It’s the mind. It’s the most complex and astonishing thing there is, that there’s a world inside each of us that no one else can ever know or see or visit.

I would have chosen you, if they had let me choose.

Once upon a time, a sister made a vow she didn't know how to break, and it broke her instead. Once upon a time, a girl did the impossible, but she did it just a little too late.

People are our safe places. I have one: a person who’s a home and a world to me.

We're all on the same side. Even her. You can be on the same side and have different ideas.

Can we leave the past behind us?" Could they? The question was everything. "That's an excellent place for the past," said Suheyla. "If you don't leave it there, it clutters everything up and you just keep tripping over it.

The ones who know can't tell us, and the ones who tell us don't know.

Many a choice is made this way: By pretending it makes itself.

There comes a certain point with a hope or a dream, when you either give it up or give up everything else.

He had, in his hearts, declared war on the dark child, but Lazlo was no warrior, and his hearts had no talent for hate.

It turned out that sometimes it's enough to start doing things differently now.

Good little girls don't stab their nurses and drag toddlers over their corpses in order to save their lives. Good little girls don't kill. They die. And Minya was not a good little girl.

For an instant, at least, they seemed one and the same, as though all anguish exists in the same deep well, no matter what loss or misfortune leads us to it. We might be at odds, hate each other, and desired each others destruction, but in our despair, we are lost in the same darkness, breathing the same air as we choke on our grief.

The way he looked at her, she felt like some kind of miracle, as though his dreamer’s eyes cast her in their glow of wonder.

She gave the words back to him, murmuring, and kept them, too. You could do that: Give them back and keep them. "I love you" is generous that way.

All empires fail. They overreach, spread too thin, collect one enemy too many. They’re gnawed at from within by corruption, greed, betrayal.

There was a word from a myth: sathaz . It was the desire to possess that which can never be yours. It meant senseless, hopeless yearning, the way a gutter child might dream of being king, and it came from the tale of the man who loved the moon.

There is unique pleasure in introducing the bizarre and inconceivable to others.

You don’t know yet what you’re capable of, but I’m willing to bet it’s extraordinary.

We might be at odds, hate each other, and desire each other’s destruction, but in our despair, we are lost in the same darkness, breathing the same air as we choke on our grief.

This is Weep. You can’t expect things to make sense here.” Thyon didn’t agree. “I expect they make perfect sense,” he said. “Just under a different set of rules.” It was a matter of learning the rules, like learning a new language.

The little poets sing of little things: Hope, cheer, and faith, small queens and puppet kings; Lovers who kissed and then were made as one, And modest flowers waving in the sun. The mighty poets write in blood and tears And agony that, flame-like, bites and sears. They reach their mad blind hands into the night, To plumb abysses dead to human sight; To drag from gulfs where lunacy lies curled, Mad, monstrous nightmare shapes to blast the world. MUSINGS [click on the thumbnail by Jack "King" Kirby]

Skathis might have been an artist, but he'd been a vile one. Strange the dreamer was an artist, too, and he was the antidote to vile.

The mind is good at hiding things, but there's something it cannot do: It can't erase. It can only conceal, and concealed things are not gone. They rot. They fester, they leak poisons. They ache and stink. They hiss like serpents in tall grass.

Many a choice is made in this way: by pretending it makes itself. And many a fate is decided by those who cannot decide.

I've had recurring nightmares that I was loved for who I am...and missed the opportunity to be a better man.

It wasn’t even an alternate version of his life. He hadn’t gone back in time and done everything differently to get to this place. It turned out that sometimes it’s enough to start doing things differently now.

The gods had been dead for fifteen years, after all, but their hate had lingered, and ruled in their stead.

The iguana was not invited.

Her voice would die before she ran out of rage. She could scream a hole in her throat and come unraveled, fall to pieces like moth-chewed silk, and still, from the leftover shreds of her, the little pile of tatters, would pour forth this unending scream.

It’s easy to make people cry. Grief, humiliation, anger—there are countless avenues to tears. It’s easy to make them scream, too. There are so many things to fear.

Hope was luster, and they had shone with it like twin pearls in an oyster.

This was a game that kill could not win—or, if it did, it would be an unbearable win that destroyed the very meaning of winning.

You should have seen them, Thyon said. "It was surreal." As an afterthought, he added, "Though I can't believe none of them rode the dragon." "I know!" said Ruza. "What was Azareen's thinking, choosing a winged horse when she could have a dragon?" "I don't think she was really focused on which creature was best," said Tzara. "You shouldn't have to focus on it," said Ruza. "It's instinctive. Dragons are always best.

But how do you stop someone from crying? How do you lead them out of fear? Can hate be reversed? Can revenge be diffused?

You can be on the same side and have different ideas.

She hadn’t known she was crushed until she wasn’t, and she didn’t know she was fragmented until she became whole

For fifteen years, the people of Weep had lived with the certainty that the monsters were dead, and Eril-Fane had lived with the burden of it.

He moved through his mind with the assuredness of an explorer and the grace of a poet.

Wow," Puck mused, standing beside me. "The River of Dreams." ... Moons, comets and constellations rippled on the surface, and other, stranger things floated upon the misty black waters. Petals and book pages, butterfly wings and silver medals. The hilt of a sword stuck out of the water at an odd angle, the silver blade tangled with ribbons and spiderwebs. A coffin bobbed to the surface, covered in dead lilies, before sinking into the depths once more. The debris of human imaginations, floating through the dark waters of dream and nightmare.

How people loved to see a dream shatter, thought Nova from far away. To see the dreamer hobbled and lamed, foundering in the shards of their broken hopes. This is what you get for believing that you could have more. You’re no better than us. You’re nothing special.

His smiles had been pickled things, as though they’d been preserved in vinegar on some earlier occasion, to be pulled out to act as garnish to his artfully plated expressions.

Belief like that, that hasn't tasted any real hope in centuries, but has been fed and tortured on darker things-loneliness, desperation-it doesn't simply subside when faced with its own end. It doesn't accept or adapt, it exists in spite of reason, and will only ever defy it.

the coiled thing in Minya relaxed just a little. It was fear, of course, though Minya did not know it. She believed it was rage, only and always rage, but that was the costume it wore, because fear was weakness, and she had vowed to never again be weak.

Never before had time seemed so like currency, each moment a coin that could be well- or ill-spent, or even, if one wasn’t careful, wasted and lost.

Then it was all over. Or maybe it wasn't. The ones who know can't tell us, and the ones who tell us don't know.

Just because the power is mine, it doesn’t follow that all the choices are.

Kitchens and women were both subjects that simply did not intrigue him.

(N)ew dreams sprout up when old ones come true, like seedlings in a forest: a new generation of wishes.

Everyone else had managed to pick up the tatters and mend them into wearable lives. Why couldn't he?

Have an enemy, be an enemy. Hate those who hate you. Hate them better. Hate them worse. Be the monster they dear the most. And whatever you can, and however you can, make them suffer.

Well then," said Lazlo, wry. "It's a good thing we were always such excellent friends, working together for the good of all." It mightn't have been true before, but perhaps it could be.

You’re the good kind of faranji, I suppose.” “Oh yes,” she said. “Very good. I even taste good, or so I’m told.” He was focused on not falling to his death, and so he missed the mischief in her voice. “Taste,” he scoffed. “I suppose they’re cannibals. Who’s calling them barbarians now?” Calixte laughed with delighted disbelief, and it was only then, too late, that Thyon took her meaning. Oh gods. Taste. He flung back his head to look up at her, nearly losing his balance in the process. She laughed harder at the shock on his face. “Cannibals!” she repeated. “That’s good. I’m going to start calling Tzara that. My sweet cannibal. Can I tell you a secret?” She whispered the rest, wide-eyed and zestful: “I’m a cannibal, too.

And I suppose all the wishes come true,” Minya said, sarcastic. “Of course not, silly girl,” Suheyla retorted. She had not grown up in an era of optimism, but that didn’t mean they’d lived without dreams. “Wishes don’t just come true. They’re only the target you paint around what you want. You still have to hit the bull’s-eye yourself.

Why should we have to disappear just because men are animals?

Lazlo had loved Sarai as a dream, and he would love her as a ghost as well.

The mind is good at hiding things, but it can’t erase. It can only conceal, and concealed things are not gone.

Thyon could easily imagine Ruza as a little boy on a pony. He looked at him and saw the child he'd been, and he saw the man he was--warrior, prankster, friend--and he felt a warmth that he had never felt before for any other person. It was affection, and something that frightened him, too, that he could feel in his knees and fingertips and face. It made him unsure what to do with his hands. He noticed things like knuckles and eyelashes that he didn't notice on other people, and sometimes he had to look away and pretend to be thinking of something else.

Those seraphim who escaped into the neighbor world Eretz managed to hold the portal closed, and they held it to this day, pouring their strength into shoring up their sky to keep the darkness at bay. A bold young queen in that distant world was even now training a legion of angels and chimaera to battle the darkness and hopefully destroy it. But that’s another story.

Death is permanent,” said Less Ellen, “while flesh very much is not.

You look ill,” Matthew observed. “Is it my dancing? Is it me personally?” “Perhaps I’m nervous,” she said. “Lucie did say you didn’t like many people.” Matthew gave a sharp, startled laugh, before schooling his face back into a look of lazy amusement. “Did she? Lucie’s a chatterbox.” “But not a liar,” she said. “Well, fear not. I do not dislike you. I hardly know you,” said Matthew. “I do know your brother. He made my life miserable at school, and Christopher’s, and James’s.” “Alastair and I are very different,” Cordelia said. She didn’t want to say more than that. It felt disloyal to Alastair. “I like Oscar Wilde, for instance, and he does not.” The corner of Matthew’s mouth curled up. “I see you go directly for the soft underbelly, Cordelia Carstairs. Have you really read Oscar’s work?” “Just Dorian Gray,” Cordelia confessed. “It gave me nightmares.” “I should like to have a portrait in the attic,” Matthew mused, “that would show all my sins, while I stayed young and beautiful. And not only for sinning purposes—imagine being able to try out new fashions on it. I could paint the portrait’s hair blue and see how it looks.” “You don’t need a portrait. You are young and beautiful,” Cordelia pointed out. “Men are not beautiful. Men are handsome,” objected Matthew. “Thomas is handsome. You are beautiful,” said Cordelia, feeling the imp of the perverse stealing over her. Matthew was looking stubborn. “James is beautiful too,” she added. “He was a very unprepossessing child,” said Matthew. “Scowly, and he hadn’t grown into his nose.” “He’s grown into everything now,” Cordelia said. Matthew laughed, again as if he was surprised to be doing it. “That was a very shocking observation, Cordelia Carstairs. I am shocked.

It was clear to her now, Happiness was a seductive illusion. No one as fucked up as her deserved one drop of joy. But oh god was it delicious when it fell into her lap for a little while. (Such a pretty face) she muses (with such a bruised and battered soul). When the dawn of a promise fades into the dusk of reality, all that remains is the nightmare. Sweet, sweet loneliness. Shadows come to play and prey on her beaten mind. Her lovely little dreams of poison.

How people love to see a dream shatter, thought Nova from far away. To see the dreamer hobbled and lamed, foundering in the shards of their broken hopes. This is what you get for believing that you could have more. You’re no better than us. You’re nothing special.

Thyon, earthbound, felt every choice he'd made, every action he'd taken as a weight he carried with him. He wondered: Was it weight he could shed or throw off, or what it forever part of him, as much as his bones or his hearts?

A person could be driven mad by hate. It was a force as destructive as any Mesarthim gift, and harder to end than a god. The gods had been dead for fifteen years, after all, but their hate had lingered, and ruled in their stead.

Wishes don't justcome true. They're only the target you paint around what you want. You still have to hit the bulls-eye yourself.

I’ve long considered becoming a writer to be the death of nightmares. For me at least, since I started writing I hadn’t had any. Something really terrible or awful happens in a dream and you wake up and think, awesome, and reach for a pen and paper.

The goddess of dreams, she thought, if there were such a person, would wear gossamer and moonlight. No sooner did she think it than she was it. Her skin let off a subtle glow. Her dress floated like evaporating mist, and a corona of stars and fireflies perched on her red-brown hair.

The hours spent forming a written work can make one obsessive, distracted, compulsive, and neurotic even, especially when it comes to those rare, precious occasions of streaming pure inspiration. To have a muse moment interrupted - to watch her scuttle back into hiding with unshared insight remaining on the tip of her tongue - is a wicked irritation. When a writer's eyes glaze over, when she stares off at nothing or appears to be memorizing the lines on a blank page, when she falls asleep at the desk... tiptoe softly. For a writer's greatest desire is to receive inspiration; her greatest nightmare, to have tossed to the wind what could have been captured in words.

Oh God,” she moans, pressing her forehead into the wooden surface. “Does this feel like church to you?” I bring my hand down on her ass, and she tightens around me. “Save your prayers for Sunday, Little Nightmare, and say my name when my cock is inside you.

The other me, who did not mean to drown herself, went under the sea and remained there for a long time. Eventually she surfaced near Japan and people gave her gifts but she had been so long under the sea she did not recognize what they were. She is a sly one. Mostly at night we commune. Night. Harbinger of dream and nightmare and bearer of omens which defy the music of words. In the morning the fear of her going is very real and very alarming. It can make one tremble. Not that she cares. She is the muse. I am the messenger.

is my Little Nightmare ready to come? Do it for me. Be good and let me watch, and maybe I’ll fill you up after.

And when her hearts resumed beating, she imagined she could feel a spill of light into the veins that carried her spirit

Lazlo's chances came without warning, and when they did, he didn't dither, and he didn't stop to pack.

The ones who know can’t tell us, and the ones who tell us don’t know.

The Muse of Nightmares was dead.

nightmare agenda if ever there was one, she thinks—but that crazy exhilaration persists. When did she last feel this young? She can hardly sit still. “The 20th of July, ” Eddie muses, rolling his aspirator along the table from one hand to the other. “Three or four days after

Wishes don’t just come true. They’re only the target you paint around what you want. You

They were match and striker, each to the other. They touched and were set afire.

But the truth has a way of seeping out. The mind can’t erase. It can only conceal, and concealed things are not gone.

He hoped at least that Lazlo saw how foolish it all was. Sarai wasn't like that. Lazlo was lucky. Well, Sarai was dead, so not lucky lucky.

Wishes don't just come true. They're only the target you paint around what you want. You still have to hit the bulls-eye yourself.

Her soul felt alive more than ever before. Sarai almost forget that she wasn't.

There was no drawer she could put them in to give herself a rest, no hook she could tie their tethers to, to keep them in the world.

There comes a certain point with a hope or a dream, when you either give it up or give up everything else. And if you choose the dream, if you keep on going, then you can never quit, because it’s all you are.

I wouldn't have ever given up on you, Little Nightmare, because it would've meant giving up all of that. And living without even an ounce of you would've been like living without the fucking rain: completely impossible.

Can we leave the past behind us?” she asked. Could they? The question was everything. “That’s an excellent place for the past,” said Suheyla. “If you don’t leave it there, it clutters everything up and you just keep tripping over it.

Fertility, sexuality, strength, and the ability to create and nurture life: These were the powers of women ... It was a ripening, yes, but not just for the purpose of bearing children, or being a wife. It represented a claiming of one's self...

Perhaps we don’t know each other’s favorite songs and worst nightmares, but you can be soul mates and still not be aware of those things. Some connections are physical, love. Tangible. You know them when you feel them.

She wished, rather, to spend whatever time she had left, if not living, then at least doing and being and feeling. Never before had time seemed so like currency, each moment a coin that could be well- or ill-spent, or even, if one wasn’t careful, wasted and lost.

Now it was back, and it felt, as it ever had, like calligraphy, if calligraphy were written in honey.

Amezrou (AH·may·zroo) noun When something deeply precious, long lost and despaired of, is found and restored, against all expectation

I was just thinking,” said Sparrow, “how our waking life is like the citadel. Enclosed, I mean. Indoors, no sky. But dreaming is like the garden. You can step out of prison and feel the sky around you. In a dream you can be anywhere. You can be free.

Wishes don't just come true. They're only the target you paint around what you want. You still have to hit the bull's-eye yourself.

Rien de tout cela n'était possible bien sûr... Mais pareil détail avait-il jamais empêché un rêveur de rêver ?

Животът, момче, няма да те чака да стоиш със скръстени ръце. Помни: духът привиква към ленност, когато страстите са занемарени.

The mind is good at hiding things, but there’s something it cannot do: It can’t erase. It can only conceal, and concealed things are not gone. They rot. They fester, they leak poisons. They ache and stink. They hiss like serpents in tall grass.