Riddler Quotes

The trickster, the riddler, the keeper of balance, he of the many faces who finds life in death and who fears no evil; he who walks through doors.

I'm not talking about killing Cobblepot and Scarecrow or Clayface. Not Riddler or Dent... I'm talking about him. Just him. And doing it because... because he took me away from you.

Those who try to juggle wisdom, power and greed, drop one of the balls, every time.” —Zarost

Riddler: You want to tell me who you killed and why? Catwoman: We didn’t kill anyone Poisson Ivy: Well, not yesterday

The Sphinx is the riddle, not the riddler.

Fine, but answer me this.” – Andy ‘Dang, when had the kid turned into the Riddler? He should have curtailed all those Batman reruns when Andy was a boy.’ – Sundown

acronym, n. I remember the first time you signed an email with SWAK. I didn’t know what it meant. It sounded violent, like a slap connecting. SWAK! Batman knocking down the Riddler. SWAK! Cries of “Liar! Liar!” Tears. SWAK! So I wrote back: SWAK? And the next time you wrote, ten minutes later, you explained. I loved the ridiculous image I got from that, of you leaning over your laptop, touching your lips gently to the screen, sealing your words to me before turning them into electricity. Now every time you SWAK me, the echo of that electricity remains.

He spoke of dreams and never named the dreamer, of a glass candle that could not be lit and eggs that would not hatch. He said the sphinx was the riddle, not the riddler, whatever that meant.

Hope. Could there be hope in this city? And if there could, could I allow it in me?

Here in this file are the pieces of my broken spirit...I keep trying to go back. To understand, how? Why? Could it be so painful to be alive?

I wait for a hint of dawn, to know that I've made it through another night. Einstein only took naps. You're okay. Shhh. Just breathe,

Say, what's the question mark for? Sexual identity?

The sphinx is the riddle, not the riddler. Do you knows what that means? No. Is it a riddle?

Sphinx is the riddle, not the riddler.

You're a formidable riddler and I'll not match words with ye

Brutish strength combined with the elegance of the gambit—it was the mark of a true genius. Anyone could achieve power with a gun or a knife. The perfect riddle commanded its recipient to act in one way, and one way only. There was no greater mastery—and that was what the Riddler sought to achieve over Batman—absolute mastery.

Today, a new life begins. A new promise is made. Like you, I am reborn. My pain will be my power. It geysers out of me. It floods me with rage. I will make them pay. I will walk them to the gates of hell.

Just let me grab my thinking cap,” she told him, heading for her locker. The long floppy hat was required during midterms, designed to restrict Telepaths and preserve the integrity of the tests—not that anything could block Sophie’s enhanced abilities. But after the exams, the hats became present sacks, and everyone filled them with treats and trinkets and treasures. “I’ll need to inspect your presents before you open them,” Sandor warned as he helped Sophie lift her overstuffed hat. “That’s perfect,” Fitz said. “While he does that, you can open mine.” He pulled a small box from the pocket of his waist-length cape and handed it to Sophie. The opalescent wrapping paper had flecks of teal glitter dusted across it, and he’d tied it with a silky teal bow, making her wonder if he’d guessed her favorite color. She really hoped he couldn’t guess why. . . . “Hopefully I did better this year,” Fitz said. “Biana claimed the riddler was a total fail.” The riddle-writing pen he’d given her last time had been a disappointment, but . . . “I’m sure I’ll love it,” Sophie promised. “Besides. My gift is boring.” Sandor had declared an Atlantis shopping trip to be far too risky, so Sophie had spent the previous day baking her friends’ presents. She handed Fitz a round silver tin and he popped the lid off immediately. “Ripplefluffs?” he asked, smiling his first real smile in days. The silver-wrapped treats were what might happen if a brownie and a cupcake had a fudgey, buttery baby, with a candy surprise sunken into the center. Sophie’s adoptive mother, Edaline, had taught her the recipe

I walk through the dream again and again, each time ironing out any wrinkles that may occur, till I can see it perfectly. Judgement day is finally here!

A fire. A fire is burning inside me. The lights are coming on again. All these rooms. Dark. Abandoned. Alive again.

No one is coming, so what are you going to do about it?

How do they go on...in a city that tells them day after day that they are fractured and broken...that there is no way out or up?

What happened in these homes....I try to block it out. But it lives in my body. So my body rejects itself. Like I'm a cancer. I snuff myself out into black so the pain doesn't eat me alive.

We don't have much time. The mono travels just as fast toward its point of ending whether Blaine's with us or not." "You don't really believe he's gone, do you?" Eddie asked. "A slippery pup like him? Come on, get real. He's peeking, I guarantee you." "I doubt it very much," Roland said, and Susannah decided she agreed with him. For now, at least. "You could hear how excited he was at the idea of riddling again after all these years. And-" "And he's confident," Susannah said. "Doesn't expect to have much trouble with the likes of us." "Will he?" Jake asked the gunslinger. "Will he have trouble with us?" "I don't know," Roland said. "I don't have a Watch Me hidden up my sleeve, if that's what you're asking. It's a straight game ... but at least it's a game I've played before. We've all played it before, at least to some extent. And there's that." He nodded toward the book which Jake had taken back from Oy. "There are forces at work here, big ones, and not all of them are working to keep us away from the Tower." Susannah heard him, but it was Blaine she was thinking of-Blaine who had gone away and left them alone, like the kid who's been chosen "it" obediently covering his eyes while his playmates hide. And wasn't that what they were? Blaine's playmates? The thought was somehow worse than the image she'd had of trying the escape hatch and having her head torn off. "So what do we do?" Eddie asked. "You must have an idea, or you never would have sent him away." "His great intelligence-coupled with his long period of loneliness and forced inactivity-may have combined to make him more human than he knows. That's my hope, anyway. First, we must establish a kind of geography. We must tell, if we can, where he is weak and where he is strong, where he is sure of the game and where not so sure. Riddles are not just about the cleverness of the riddler, never think it. They are also about the blind spots of he who is riddled." "Does he have blind spots?" Eddie asked. "If he doesn't," Roland said calmly, "we're going to die on this train.

Every murderer creates his own story. This story may be simple or elaborate, coherent or deeply fragmented. Serial murderers often leave signs and symbols at the crime scene—messages for the police to decipher. Notes, maps, images. The posing of the body, a unique modus operandi. The killer is the riddler extraordinaire, and his narrative—the story he wishes to tell—is the enigma he presents to the detective. Someone—perhaps Nietzsche—once said that those seen dancing were thought insane by those who could not hear the music. Our job is to find the killer’s music.

I reached up to remove the elastic hair-tie, unwinding my standard bun until my hair fell around my shoulders in dark waves. I scrunched my hands in it at my scalp, shaking it out to try to get it to lose the kinks from being wound up so long. I still had that funny, half-painful feeling around my temples of my hair being pulled back. Maybe I should wear it down more. I might be giving myself headaches with this style. "So it's down to about..." I started to gesture, then realized I was about to point to just below my breasts. "Anyway. The more you know." Sam was still looking at my hair, his gaze traveling to the ends before he, too, seemed to realize that he was basically also now staring at my breasts. He focused instead on some point at the crown of my head, clearing his throat. "It's pretty," he said. "You have very pretty hair." Under my shirt, my nipples were tight and almost painful against the thin fabric of my bra. I'd never been more grateful for the thick screen-printed image of Jim Carrey's Riddler, because it hopefully did a good job of hiding this reaction.

Growing up means realizing that The Joker, Riddler, and Harley Quinn are the sane response to the dumpster fire that is Gotham City. The guy dressing up like a bat is only prolonging the problem. Gotham can't be saved.

When my grandmother sounded the notes, they were beautiful and ethereal, almost like whale song. When I sounded the notes … well, I sounded like the croakiest, most talentless whale in the ocean.

You’re three minutes late,” he said, stretching out on my grandmother’s lap. “But it’s all right. Úna fed and milked me.” He sniggered to himself. “By that I mean she gave me some milk, rather than turned me into a dairy cat.

I wasn’t ready to move in with him, and I wasn’t sure his fridge was ready for it, either. I’d only sully his lettuce leaves and lean chicken by making them live next to microwave lasagne and bottles of wine.

By the time my lesson ended, almost everyone I knew was watching me – which wasn’t at all uncomfortable, because I cope wonderfully under pressure. Ahem.

My mother grasped my hand. “Úna, my daughter might not be the queen of anything, but if she says she has a plan, then we’re going to listen to her.” Dylan, Jared and my father nodded vehemently. “Darn straight,” said Dylan. “I’ve learned the hard way that it’s always best to shut up and listen whenever Miss Smith has an idea.

Fuzz shrugged. “Potato tomato.” “That’s not the phrase,” I informed him. “It could be,” he said.

When I got there, I found that my broom was sitting at my desk, waiting for me. “It’s not time for a lesson,” I told it, picking it up and setting it gently on the ground. It jiggled petulantly (or that’s how it seemed to me) and lifted itself up and plopped back down again as though it were taking a very teenage-like sigh of dissatisfaction.

I woke up to the tossing and turning of a disgruntled cat – because the thing about my cat is that when he’s disgruntled, he makes darned sure I know about it. This time, I wasn’t playing along. It was early on a Sunday morning, and I hadn’t exactly had a restful night. He tossed and turned again, moving closer to me so that I could feel it even more. He then sighed a few times, just for extra effect.

You can use me to see if there’s anything weird going on with him or his equipment.” Greg sniggered and I rolled my eyes. “You know what I meant, Greg.” I turned back to Dylan. LSo come on, Detective Quinn. Let’s go. Me, you and Greg.  We need to get on top of this.” Greg sniggered again, while Dylan swallowed and stepped away from us.

You can use me to see if there’s anything weird going on with him or his equipment.” Greg sniggered and I rolled my eyes. “You know what I meant, Greg.” I turned back to Dylan. “So come on, Detective Quinn. Let’s go. Me, you and Greg.  We need to get on top of this.” Greg sniggered again, while Dylan swallowed and stepped away from us.

We’ll come up with something. We just need to put our thinking caps on.” She mimed pulling a hat down over her head. “Come on now. Eleventh-hour suggestions, please. We’ve flown by the seat of our pants before, and I happen to think we can do it again.

The rain began to fall once more, but that was okay with me, because somewhere beyond the clouds, the sun was still shining.

I was reading a story by Ariadne Albright called And Then There Were Buns. It was about a group of witch bakers who think they’re being taken to a remote island for a baking contest, but they actually get murdered one by one by their mysterious human host.

The main reason I didn’t look into the future too much was because … well, I just didn’t want to.  Life wasn’t very interesting when you knew what was going to happen.

I could see her future already, and it involved me strangling her senseless. Horrible woman. I mean, not that I’d actually strangle her. I wasn’t being literal. I’m not a violent vampire. I’m sweet as a chocolate-chip cookie, me.

Greg reached into his front pocket and grabbed a packet of peanuts (he liked to snack when he was thinking something over, or when he was relaxing, or when he was excited, or … well, you get the picture).

For some reason, the thought of Dylan shopping seemed incredibly strange to me. He seemed too grumpy to shop. He seemed too grumpy to do almost anything, except for stand around glowering.

I didn’t need to pull out my press pass in order to make my way to the centre of things – everyone in town knew by now that, if there was anything exciting or horrific going on, I was the person most likely to butt right on in and make it my business.

I gave my favourite wizard a wave and a smile, and then watched with amazement as he somehow managed to eat a turkey and stuffing sandwich, take pictures of the scene, and wave his scanner around to test for magical traces.  When he tossed back his head to slurp down some coffee at the same time as he changed his camera filter, I was even more astounded.  That wizard had skills.

Sure, I normally liked to get to the bottom of things, but not now.  Now would be a thoroughly inconvenient time for mystery and intrigue.  It was Christmas.  And Solstice.  And … that weird vampire mourning festival, too.  It was time for tinsel, bright lights and overindulging.

He gave me a sceptical look.  ‘You’re sure you’ve nothing to say on the matter?’ I let out an ever so innocent cough.  Nothing like coughing and ahem-ing to draw attention away from oneself.  Wait … it’s the opposite, isn’t it?  Crap.

He took hold of my hand, his voice husky.  ‘You have been the most irritating intrusion into my life.  And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  You’ve forced me to stop feeling sorry for myself.  You’ve forced me to see things from other people’s point of view.  You’ve forced me to overlook the fact that you say criminy more than any person ever should.  Basically, you’ve forced me to be a less grumpy version of myself.

I glared at my familiar.  ‘You couldn’t have led with that?’ He shrugged his little shoulders.  ‘I could have.  But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see your angry face.  I’ve grown rather fond of it.  I like the way your eyes get all small and slit-like.  How your nostrils flare.  How that steam comes out of your ears …’ I picked him up and kissed his nose.  ‘I’m glad you like it, darling.  Because you’re going to be seeing my angry face for quite some time to come.

Meow,” he said. “You should take a peek outside.” “I will if you promise not to say meow again.” “Hey, I’m a cat. Cats say meow.” “No. Cats meow. Cats don’t say meow.” “Meow.” He held up a paw. “All right, all right.  It was just something I was trying out.

Did I say we weren’t a good match? What I meant to say was that we were the best match. We had to be, didn’t we? Because who else would want a couple of emotionally-stunted weirdos like us?

I was no Amazonian, sure, but he couldn’t intimidate me with all of his handsome tallness. Wait – strike that from your memory. I’ll rephrase my previous utterings to something more like … he couldn’t intimidate me with his irritating everything.

I feel the need to swear,’ I muttered. ‘The very strong need to swear. And then to flee. To flee while swearing profusely.

Here’s the thing.  You might not have noticed it yet, but I really am a stubborn person.  Some say I’m stubborn to a fault, but I say I’m stubborn to a purpose.  So I did what any stubborn to a purpose woman would do.  I banged on his door and shouted through his letterbox.

He was at the coffee machine, pouring himself a small shot of espresso. “Yes, please,” I said. “I didn’t offer you one.” “Oh, I know – but I thought I might just help your manners along.

But you know what cats are like. The place they are is usually the place they want to be.

Instead I was stooping behind a damp rock – not a very large one, either – and deciding whether it would be better to make a run for it, or to phone for help. Well done me. If anyone from the Secret Service is reading this, I should be back on the job market any day now, so give me a call.

An expression crossed her face – one that I imagined had crossed my own face quite a few times when I was close to Dylan. It was a look that said something along the lines of – ‘my God, you’re an idiot, but for some unfathomable reason … I kind of like you.

I took a long slurp of the instant coffee, just to annoy him some more. “Mmm. Unpretentious and perfectly pleasant. What a way to start the day.

Greg pulled an energy bar from his pocket and unwrapped it; as usual, he was too hungry to wait for a proper meal.

I think all of the Montagues lived here in the sixties.  I’m sure I remember Pru telling me once about her mam and dad compelling the Beatles to play a secret gig in Riddler’s Edge.

Dusk was soon to become darkness, but who wanted to be at home with their feet up in front of the telly when they could be driving around in a creepy forest?

As he and the band performed, fans of his puzzles threw their underwear onto the small stage. Fans of his singing were far more sedate, asking him for autographs when the performance ended, and politely enquiring if they could buy him a drink. Yes, I thought it might be the other way around, too.

Confused, I jumped out of bed and opened up the doors. The broom flew straight at me, tapping me lightly on the behind. “What the …?” I spun around, like a dog chasing its tail, trying to get a better look at the thing.

Everything you make is the best, Abby.  Which is weird, because Aisling has not inherited your talent in the kitchen.” “Hey,” I protested. “I’ll have you know I’m very good at dialling for pizza.

The lights had been shut off for the ceremony, and torches had been brought in – when I say torches, I mean the creepy kind with flames, rather than the useful kind with batteries.

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that evil people really like the sounds of their own voices.

I have fever of comedyvirus. I think thoughts. I open eyes. I'm not CIA, but I could be. I'm not the Riddler, but I could be.