Nightmare Alley Quotes

What sort of God would put us here in this goddamned, stinking slaughterhouse of a world?

The rest of them drink something else: they drink promises. They drink hope. And I've got it to hand them.

How helpless they all looked in the ugliness of sleep. A third of life spent unconscious and corpselike. And some, the great majority, stumbled through their waking hours scarcely more awake, helpless in the face of destiny. They stumbled down a dark alley toward their deaths. They sent exploring feelers into the light and met fire and writhed back again into the darkness of their blind groping.

Her own awareness had risen like the dawn on her back.Like a leaden sunrise veiled in a swirl of storm clouds. It was no longer enough to have answers for Shiva's sake. Indeed, it had ceased to be about mere vengeance the moment Khalid's lips touched hers in the alley by the souk. She had wanted there to be a reason for this madness, needed there to be a reason, so that she could be with him. So that she could be by his side, make him smile as she laughed, weave tales by lamplight, and share secrets in the dark.So that she could fall asleep in his arms and awaken to a brilliant tomorrow. But it was too late. He was the Mehrdad of her nightmares. She had opened the door. She had seen the bodies hanging from the walls, without explanation. Without justification. And without one, Shahrzad knew what must be done. Khalid had to answer for such vile deeds. Such rampant death. Even if he was her air. Even if she loved him beyond words.

He looked like he came out of nightmare alley.

Nothing matters in this goddamned lunatic asylum of a world but dough.

Loneliness came over him, like an avalanche of snow. He was alone. Where he had always wanted to be. You can only trust yourself. There's a rat buried deep in everybody and they'll rat on you if they get pushed far enough.

In a patch of silver the Rev. Carlisle stopped and raised his face to the full moon, where it hung desolately, agonizingly bright - a dead thing, watching the dying earth.

Fat Charlie blew his nose. "I never knew I had a brother," he said. "I did," said Spider. "I always meant to look you up, but I got distracted. You know how it is." "Not really." "Things came up." "What kind of things?" "Things. They came up. That's what things do. They come up. I can't be expected to keep track of them all." "Well, give me a f'rinstance." Spider drank more wine. "Okay. The last time I decided that you and I should meet, I, well, I spent days planning it. Wanted it to go perfectly. I had to choose my wardrobe. Then I had to decide what I'd say to you when we met. I knew that the meeting of two brothers, well, it's the subject of epics, isn't it? I decided that the only way to treat it with the appropriate gravity would be to do it in verse. But what kind of verse? Am I going to rap it? Declaim it? I mean, I'm not going to greet you with a limerick. So. It had to be something dark, something powerful, rhythmic, epic. And then I had it. The perfect line: Blood calls to blood like sirens in the night. It says so much. I knew I'd be able to get everything in there - people dying in alleys, sweat and nightmares, the power of free spirits uncrushable. Everything was going to be there. And then I had to come up with a second line, and the whole thing completely fell apart. The best I could come up with was Tum-tumpty-tumpty-tumpty got a fright." Fat Charlie blinked. "Who exactly is Tum-tumpty-tumpty-tumpty?" "It's not anybody. It's just there to show you where the words ought to be. But I never really got any futher on it than that, and I couldn't turn up with just a first line, some tumpties and three words of an epic poem, could I? That would have been disrespecting you." "Well...." "Exactly. So I went to Hawaii for the week instead. Like I said, something came up.

The speech fascinated him. His ear caught the rhythm of it and he noted their idioms and worked some of them into his patter. He had found the reason behind the peculiar, drawling language of the old carny hands—it was a composite of all the sprawling regions of the country. A language which sounded Southern to Southerners, Western to Westerners. It was the talk of the soil and its drawl covered the agility of the brains that poured it out. It was a soothing, illiterate, earthy language.

Surreal realized Daemon’s madness was confined to emotions, to people, to that single tragedy he couldn’t face. It was as if Titian had never died, as if Surreal hadn’t spent three years whoring in back alleys before Daemon found her again and arranged for a proper education in a Red Moon house. He thought she was still a child, and he continued to fret about Titian’s absence. But when she mentioned a book she was reading, he made a dry observation about her eclectic taste and proceeded to tell her about other books that might be of interest. It was the same with music, with art. They posed no threat to him, had no time frame, weren’t part of the nightmare of Jaenelle bleeding on that Dark Altar.

Man comes into the world a blind, groping mite. He knows hunger and the fear of noise and of falling. His life is spent in flight - flight from hunger and from the thunderbolt of destiny. From his moment of birth he begins to fall through the whistling air of Time: down, down into a chasm of darkness . . . we come like a breath of wind over the fields of morning. We go like a lamp flame caught by a blast from a darkened window. In between we journey from table to table, from battle to bottle, from bed to bed. We suck, we chew, we swallow, we lick, we try to mash life into us like an am-am-amoeba God damn it! Somebody lets us loose like a toad out of a matchbox and we jump and jump and jump and the guy always behind us, and when he gets tired he stomps us to death and our guts squirt out on each side of the boot of All Merciful Providence. The son-of-a-bitch!

At the stroke of midnight in Washington, a drooling red-eyed beast with the legs of a man and a head of a giant hyena crawls out of its bedroom window in the South Wing of the White House and leaps fifty feet down to the lawn...pauses briefly to strangle the Chow watchdog, then races off into the darkness...towards the Watergate, snarling with lust, loping through the alleys behind Pennsylvania Avenue, and trying desperately to remember which one of those fore hundred identical balconies is the one outside of Martha Mitchell's apartment....Ah...Nightmares, nightmares. But I was only kidding. The President of the United States would never act that weird. At least not during football season.

Hoatley - First Carnival Owner: Now this creature - There he is, THE GEEK! He has puzzled the foremost scientists of Europe and America. Is he the missing link? Is he man or beast? Some have pronounced him man. But beneath that shaggy mane of hair lies the brain of a beast.

Stan, sitting beside Zeena, tried to concentrate on the words and guess what the reverend was going to say next. Anything to keep from thinking. It’s not my fault he’s dead. I didn’t mean to kill him. I killed him. There it starts again and all day I wasn’t feeling anything and I thought I’d lost it.

La gente è sempre in ansia. Puoi tenere in pugno chi vuoi, se scopri di cosa ha paura.

If dad had always been as weak and as friendly as he was now that he was dying. If only he could have been dying for twenty years, Stan might have loved him.

Any place is grand, long as you got the old do-re-mi in the grouch bag,

Siccome ti sono amico, ti risparmio le vaccate. Vuoi sapere da dove vengono i mangiabestie. Stammi a sentire, allora. I mangiabestie non si trovano. Si creano.

Fear is the key to human nature.

Miss Leary, do you mean to insinuate that I should go encouraging homo-sex-uality amongst these corpses?

Also Dad said it was a shame to go to bed early and miss everything when you could sleep late the next day and catch up...

geek, a drunkard driven so low that he would bite off the heads of chickens and snakes just to get the booze he needed.

Dust when it was dry. Mud when it was rainy. Swearing, steaming, sweating, scheming, bribing, bellowing, cheating, the carny went its way. It came like a pillar of fire by night, bringing excitement and new things into the drowsy towns- lights and noise and the chance to win an Indian blanket, to ride on the ferris wheel, to see the wild man who fondles those reptiles as a mother would fondle her babes. Then it vanished in the night, leaving the trodden grass of the field and the debris of popcorn boxes and rusting tin ice cream spoons to show where it had been.

Through silent alleys where dark shadows fleeted past them like forest beasts on the prowl; through bustling market-places where bloaters predominated, into crammed gin-palaces where the gas flashed over faces whereon was stamped the indelible impression of a protest against creation; brushing tatters which were in gruesome harmony with the haggard or bloated features. ("The Phantom Model

Oh, Christ, why do you have to grow up into a life like this one? Why do you ever have to want women, want power, make money, make love, keep up a front, sell the act, suck around some booking agent, get gypped on the check—?

Le persone muoiono dalla voglia che qualcuno gli predica il futuro e tu li rincuori. Che diamine, dai loro qualcosa da desiderare e in cui sperare. È quel che fanno i predicatori la domenica. Tra essere un’indovina e un predicatore, la differenza è poca, per come la vedo io.

n tempo sembravano puttane. Adesso somigliavano a studentesse universitarie. Volevano tutte sembrare studentesse. Perché non ci andavano davvero, all’università, allora? Non avrebbero avuto niente di diverso dalle altre. Nessuno le avrebbe mai notate. Cristo, che maniera assurda di stare al mondo.

Un tempo sembravano puttane. Adesso somigliavano a studentesse universitarie. Volevano tutte sembrare studentesse. Perché non ci andavano davvero, all’università, allora? Non avrebbero avuto niente di diverso dalle altre. Nessuno le avrebbe mai notate. Cristo, che maniera assurda di stare al mondo.

Sviare l’attenzione, il segreto è tutto lì, tesoro. Non hai bisogno di chissà quali marchingegni, botole, casse con il doppio fondo, tavoli strani. Ho sempre sostenuto che un uomo disposto a imparare come si svia l’attenzione della gente può sfilare un oggetto dalla tasca, metterlo in un cappello e infine estrarlo. Resteranno tutti a bocca aperta, chiedendosi da dove è spuntata quella roba.

«A volte ho l’impressione che se davvero ho un talento non è di natura letteraria. Il mio è piuttosto un talento per la pura e semplice sopravvivenza. Sono sopravvissuto a tre matrimoni naufragati, alla perdita dei figli, alla guerra, alla tubercolosi, al marxismo, all’alcolismo, alla nevrosi e ad anni di scrittura da freelance. Sono troppo cocciuto e miserabile perché mi si possa far fuori, mi sa». - W.L.Gresham

The Republican rallying cry of the last seven years has been that they want to take the country back. Yes, back to a time when men worked and women stayed home and watched the kids. A time when there were no drugs but everyone drank. There were no abortions except in back alleys. No gays, except in the closet. Minorities knew their place. And strikers got their heads busted. And if we didn’t like another country, we bombed the shit out of it; their whitewashed, utopian dream, and every else’s dystopian nightmare.

He was staring at the woman who stood holding the door open into another room . He weaved to his feet, lurching as he came near her, then he caught a whiff of perfume. The gray eyes seemed as big as saucers, like the eyes of a kitten when you hold its nose touching yours. He looked at the small mouth, the full lower lip, carefully tinted but not painted. She said nothing. As he started to push past her he seemed to fall; he found his arm around her and held on knowing that he was a fool, knowing something terrible would strike him dead, knowing he wanted to cry, to empty his bladder, to scream, to go to sleep, wondering as he tightened his arm around her…Stan lay sprawling on the floor.

O dear, soft people, full of meat and blood, with white beds and airy rooms waiting you each night, how can I make you know what it is to suffer as you would suffer if you spent a weary night on London's streets? Believe me, you would think a thousand centuries had come and gone before the east paled into dawn; you would shiver till you were ready to cry aloud with the pain of each aching muscle; and you would marvel that you could endure so much and live. Should you rest upon a bench, and your tired eyes close, depend upon it the policeman would rouse you and gruffly order you to 'move on.' You may rest upon the bench, and benches are few and far between; but if rest means sleep, on you must go, dragging your tired body through the endless streets. Should you, in desperate slyness, seek some forlorn alley or dark passageway and lie down, the omnipresent policeman will rout you out just the same. It is his business to rout you out. It is a law of the powers that be that you shall be routed out. But when the dawn came, the nightmare over, you would hale you home to refresh yourself, and until you died you would tell the story of your adventure to groups of admiring friends. It would grow into a mighty story. Your little eight-hour night would become an Odyssey and you a Homer. Not so with these homeless ones who walked Poplar Workhouse with me. And there are thirty-five thousand of them, men and women, in “London Town this night. Please don't remember it as you go to bed; if you are as soft as you ought to be, you may not rest so well as usual. But for old men of sixty, seventy, and eighty, ill-fed, with neither meat nor blood, to greet the dawn unrefreshed, and to stagger through the day in mad search for crusts, with relentless night rushing down upon them again, and to do this nights and days- O dear, soft people, full of meat and blood, how can you ever understand?

Beyond that elfin face, the steady eyes, there was something breathing, something that was fed blood from a tiny heart beating under pointed breasts. But is was cobweb under the fingers. Cobweb in the woods that touches the face and disappears under the fingers.

sprang on your nerves with all the abruptness of a normal night’s dream turning to nightmare. Dog into wolf, light into twilight, emptiness into waiting presence, here were your underage Marine barfing in the street, barmaid with a ship’s propeller tattooed on each buttock, one potential berserk studying the best technique for jumping through a plate glass window (when to scream Geronimo? before or after the glass breaks?), a drunken deck ape crying back in the alley because last time the SP’s caught him like this they put him in a strait jacket.

Si alguna vez ella mirara hacia aquí mientras estoy sin la túnica, no me importaría morir en ese momento. Me arrancaría el corazón y se lo entregaría en una bandeja. ¿Es que no se da cuenta? No consigo armarme de valor para tomarle la mano en el cine. ¿Por qué un hombre siempre ha de enamorarse de una mujer así? Ni siquiera puedo decirle lo loco que estoy por ella

Stan dejó de caminar. Nadie podía verlos desde los terrenos de la feria. Zeena le sonreía a algo que había en su interior

Ella ya no era un adulto. O él ya no era un niño. Ya no había adultos. Mentían y se asustaban, igual que todo el mundo. Todos eran iguales, solo que unos eran más grandes.

Si alguna vez ella mirara hacia aquí mientras estoy sin la túnica, no me importaría morir en ese momento. Me arrancaría el corazón y se lo entregaría en una bandeja. ¿Es que no se dá cuenta? No consigo armarme de valor para tomarle la mano en el cine. ¿Por qué un hombre siempre se enamora ha de enamorarse de una mujer así?

Carlisle se detuvo en un charco plateado, levantó la cara hacia la luna llena y la vio desolada, tristemente brillante: algo muerto que contemplaba la agonía de la tierra.

La prisa, la veloz caída de los años hacia la muerte, se apoderó de él, y apretó con fuerza a la mujer, la atrajo hacia sí en un feroz intento de agarrarse a la vida. Ella le permitió que la abrazara, y él se oyó sollozar en voz baja mientras frotaba sus mejillas contra aquellos cabellos lisos.

De repente comenzó a ver que no existía ninguna magia en la que confiar, y que al final solo podía confiar en sí mismo. [...] Y le daba miedo acabar desilusionado.

La naturaleza humana es siempre la misma. Todos tienen los mismos problemas. Se puede controlar a cualquiera averiguando de qué tiene miedo. [...] El miedo es la clave de la naturaleza humana.

La soledad se apoderó de él, como una avalancha de nieve. Estaba solo. Donde siempre había querido estar. Solo puedes confiar en ti mismo. Hay un delator en lo más profundo de cada uno de nosotros, y cualquiera te delatará si lo presionan lo suficiente

This is the most desperate breed there is. They are just a little too bright for the servile role of dogdom. So their loneliness is a little more excruciating, their welcomes more frantic, their desire to please a little more intense. They seem to think that if they could just do everything right, they wouldn’t have to be locked up in the silence—pacing, sleeping, brooding, enduring the swollen bladder. That’s what they try to talk about. One day there will appear a super-poodle, one almost as bright as the most stupid alley cat, and he will figure it out. He will suddenly realize that his loneliness is merely a by-product of his being used to ease the loneliness of his Owner. He’ll tell the others. He’ll leave messages. And some dark night they’ll all start chewing throats.