S.st Quotes

I love humanity but I hate humans. —Albert Einstein

To defeat a monster, you have to be twice as monstrous. To love a monster, you have to share your soul. —Lana Myers

I know this shit is fucked up, so don’t bother writing to tell me I’m twisted in the head. ;)      

You liked me best when I was like an oil painting; perfectly arranged and silent.

F**k them is what I say. I hate those ebooks. They can not be the future. They may well be. I will be dead. I won't give a s**t.

You did not let me keep my name, so I will strip you of yours. In this world you are what I say you are, and I say you are a ghost, a long night's fever dream that I have finally woken up from. I say you are the smoke-wisp memory of a flame, thawing ice suffering under an early spring sun, a chalk ledger of depts being wiped clean. I say you do not have a name.

You could have kissed me or slit my throat and either would have made as much sense.

This is my last love letter to you, though some would call it a confession. I suppose both are a sort of gentle violence, putting down in ink what scorches the air when spoken aloud.

Even loneliness, hollow and cold, becomes so familiar it starts to feel like a friend.

There’s a certain high you get from fooling the world into thinking you’re the lamb instead of the rabid wolf.

Touch him again, and I’ll burn the town to the ground with everyone still in it.

He doesn’t love me like I love him,” I say hoarsely. “I love him enough to burn the world to the ground in his name.

Sometimes people don’t find justice. Sometimes they have to take it.

War is the whetstone that grinds down all sense, all humanity.

A serial killer sharing a house with a homicide detective and a FBI agent. Life doesn’t get more complicated than this.

It’s sad that I want to hide my bodies now so that my boyfriend gets a break and can spend more time with me.

Any demon is capable of cruelty, but only an angel is majestic enough to rain down vengeance for the innocent. —Marcus Evans

People aren’t meant to live forever. I know that now.

To defeat a monster, you have to be twice as monstrous. To love a monster, you have to share your soul.

Einstein said, “The weak revenge. The strong forgive. The intelligent ignore.” Fuck that. Einstein wasn’t always right.

Love is not supposed to be beautiful. It’s supposed to be a raw, gritty struggle that forces you to face the most vulnerable parts of yourself, so that when the good times come, you can savor and enjoy them, fully appreciate what they’re worth. Otherwise, you take it all for granted. —Lana Myers

What is more lovely, after all, than a monster undone with want?

If you can still hear me wherever you are, my love, my tormentor, hear this: It was never my intention to murder you. Not in the beginning, anyway.

I will render you as you really were, neither cast in pristine stained glass or unholy fire. I will make you into nothing more than a man, tender and brutal in equal measure, and perhaps in doing so I will justify myself to you. To my own haunted conscience.

I’m Victoria Evans. The daughter of the man you killed. The sister to the boy you let die. The victim you turned into a monster. And I’m going to fucking kill you all.

The monster never gets the prince. It’s always the sweet and innocent princess who wins.

Revenge is a dish best served cold… Now that I agree with. It means they forget you’re coming for them, and their screams sound so much prettier when the time finally comes.

I was tried of being your Magdalene. I was tried of waiting expectantly at your tomb every night for you to rise and bring light into my world once again.

I love him enough to burn the world to the ground in his name.

I lost myself so entirely in charting the contours of my love for you that there wasn't any room for tracking time. There wasn't any room to examine the past or the future, there was only the eternal now.

I drop back down to my seat, wondering how planning out a brutal murder is easier than dating. The world is entirely too fucked up.

Shakespeare was one of the few philosophers who believed in revenge. Then again, he was a romantic. Romantics always believe in revenge, because romantics love harder, suffer loss more painfully, and hold onto a grudge that has shattered their hearts. Their hearts are of the greatest importance, above all else - body, soul, or mind.

I have two kills to plan, a boyfriend to see, and a best friend to un-piss off. And not in that order.

I made you into my private Christ, supplicated with my own dark devotions. Nothing existed beyond the range of your exacting gaze, not even me. I was simply a non-entity when you weren't looking at me, an empty vessel waiting to be filled by the sweet water of your attention. A woman can't live like that, my Lord. No one can. Don't ask me why I did it. God, forgive me. Christ, forgive me.

You showed me what living was like again. I'd forgotten.

You never once thought I would have the strength to disobey you, did you? The possibility that my will was stronger than yours never even crossed your mind.

It would be easier if he hated us,” she said. “But he loves us all terribly. And if we go on letting him love us, that love is going to kill us. That’s what makes him so dangerous.

I was tired of carrying around the weight of a love like worship, of sickly-warm rush of idolatry coloring my whole world.

Romantics always believe in revenge, because romantics love harder, suffer loss more painfully, and hold onto a grudge that has shattered their hearts. Their hearts are of the greatest importance, above all else—body, soul, or mind.

I'm Victoria Evans. The daughter of the man you killed. The sister of the boy you let die. The victim you turned into a monster. And i'm going to fucking kill you all.

And yeah. I can handle the Boogeyman. Even a monster has nightmares. I’ll be his.

I’ll never just bend over and take it, SSA Bennett. Unless I’m bending over for you, of course.

Never mock or harm the passionate, for they are the fiercest with their wrath. —Victoria Evans

I love you too, Lana Myers,” he says so softly. And in that moment, I’m completely his. There’s no revenge; there are no deaths staining my hands. I’m just a girl in love with a man who’s destined to hate me when he learns the truth.

It’s the smell of revenge. Well, it’s the smell of piss, but you get the idea.

Through her eyes, I was able to experience the story for the first time all over again.

Expectation is the root of all heartache. —William Shakespeare

Desire makes idiots of all of us. But you already knew that part, didn't you?

It was like grasping at a flame. I never penetrated to the burning heart of you, only came away with empty, scorched fingers.

Two bodies in two days is a rapid devolution. He’s getting too bold.” I dropped two bodies in one day, but I hardly feel like now is the time to brag about my awesome efficiency.

He just loves me enough to feel betrayed,” I add on a rasp whisper.

If hatred didn't exist, love wouldn't either, for one is formed by the other.

You must never overthink any good and pleasurable thing.

I decided if I could choose anywhere in the world to be, it’d be wherever you were,

I simply broke under the weight of thousand tense nights, a thousand thoughtless, soul-stripping words.

To the living, we owe respect, but to the dead, we owe only the truth. —Voltaire

I'm back, motherfuckers.", i say quietly as we pass the town hall. "And i'm going to make your life hell before i paint your town red.

Sometimes people don't find justice. Sometimes they have to take it.

Why is there a gun hidden in my bathroom? Have you ever seen a horror film?

just smile, looking all sweet and shit. No ruthless killer here, boys. Just a harmless woman falling in love. That’s all.

I need something to stab, and he needs to be stabbed. Seems like we could help each other out,

Common sense is not so common. —Voltaire

It's time they die at the hands of a dead girl who forgot to be weak. I can't wait to watch them burn.

I never penetrated to the burning heart of you, only came away with empty, scorched fingers.

This felt cosmic, like a piece of me was being excised so it could take up residence in you

Like Christ, I had become intimately acquainted with violence and the sins of the world, but I had not come away unblemished.

Me? I had a nerd-gasm that led to a real orgasm later on. I got that turned on.

I have one final promise to make to you, one I hope I will never break. I promise to live, richly and shamelessly and with my arms wide open to the world. If there was any part left of you at the end that wished our our great happiness, that truly wanted what was best for us, I think it would be pleased to hear me say it. I do not know if I have justified my choice to you, but I think I have justified it to myself, and that has brought me peace enough.

First you learn the instrument, then you learn the music, then you forget all that s**t and just play.

Even a monster has nightmares. I'll be his.

Monsters can come in many forms. A pretty girl who loves the color red, for example--the color her victims bleed when they are begging to be spared.

There's a certain high you get from fooling the world into thinking you're the lamb instead of the rabid wolf.

Just like that, I have my answer. And I watch with her as the Boogeyman dies by his own knife. At the hands of a woman. The hands of a victim. In a way, it’s poetic justice.

Real love? The kind Lana gave you? It’s the kind of love that looks beyond one’s offenses against others and only calls to the soul.

I thought love would rip my heart out. I thought it would set me on fire. Instead, it turned me into ice.

Yet, we don't miss a day speaking. And it's the highlight of my day. Every day. Every time. Every single word.

I really don’t like her. Can I cut her? Just a little?

I dove down deep into your psyche, turning over every word you gave me like a jewel. Looking for meaning, seeking out the mysteries of you. I didn't care if I lost myself in the process. I wanted to be brought by the hand into your world and disappear into your kiss until us two could no longer be told apart.

This is for the ones who lost their voice. This is for the ones who wish they could be Lana Myers. This is for the ones people still whisper about. This is for the ones who fight every single day to forget. You're not alone.

It’s all cloak and dagger right now. That’s what happens when you’re a serial killer dating a FBI profiler who hunts serial killers.

Eventually, good conquers evil, because evil works alone.

When anger rises, think of the consequences. —Confucius

You taught us to never feel guilty, to revel when the world demands mourning

Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.

You usually looked at us like we were hoards of gold, precious and rarefied. But now you looked at me the way you looked at one of your books. Like you were draining me of all useful knowledge before tossing me aside.

Sometimes, when I walk through the city, I get a crawling feeling on the back of my neck that compels me to turn around. Sometimes, I think I see your face in the crowd, only for an instant, before you’re swept away by the masses once again.

As a human being, one has been endowed with just enough intelligence to be able to see clearly how utterly inadequate that intelligence is when confronted with what exists. —Albert Einstein.

The atheist, agnostic, or secularist ... should guard against the encroachment of religion in areas where it has no place, and in particular the control of education by religious authority. The attempts to ban the teaching of evolution or other scientific theories -- a feeble echo of medieval church tyranny and hostility to learning, but an echo nonetheless are serious threats to freedom of inquiry and should be vigorously combated.

Love is not supposed to be beautiful. It’s supposed to be a raw, gritty struggle that forces you to face the most vulnerable parts of yourself, so that when the good times come, you can savor and enjoy them, fully appreciate what they’re worth. Otherwise, you take it all for granted.

Because the mind is a fragile thing,” I say once again. “It’s easier to pretend the words you hear are just rumors or lies. It’s not so easy to ignore something you can see. And the sheriff has plenty he doesn’t want anyone to see.

I saw every soft moment we had shared flicker over your face, and you were so beautiful. Desperate, vulnerable. Fear for your life made you look like a man who could really love and be loved, like you might hand over your heart and all its secrets without my having to crack your ribs open to get to them.

I know you loved us all, in your own way. Magdalena for her brilliance, Alexi for his loveliness. But I was your war bride, your faithful Constanta, and you loved me for my will to survive. You coaxed that tenacity out of me and broke it down in your hands, leaving me on your work table like a desiccated doll until you were ready to repair me. You filled me with your loving guidance, stitched up my seams with thread in your favorite color, taught me how to walk and talk and smile in whatever way pleased you best. I was so happy to be your marionette, at first. So happy to be chosen.

I sensed pure, exquisite violence behind your kiss, a desire to rend and devour that reminded me more of a wolf than a man. Your hunger for me was always more apparent under the cover of darkness, when you didn’t have to arrange your face into any semblance of civility.

When that ineffable compound of depression, sadness (these two are not the same), anxiety, self-hatred, sense of failure and fear for the future begins to steal over you, start telling yourself that what you have is a hangover. You are not sickening for anything, you have not suffered a minor brain lesion, you are not all that bad at your job, your family and friends are not leagued in a conspiracy of barely maintained silence about what a s**t you are, you have not come at last to see life as it really is and there is no use crying over spilt milk.

...the Beatles were hard men too. Brian Epstein cleaned them up for mass consumption, but they were anything but sissies. They were from Liverpool, which is like Hamburg or Norfolk, Virginia--a hard, sea-farin' town, all these dockers and sailors around all the time who would beat the piss out of you if you so much as winked at them. Ringo's from the Dingle, which is like the f***ing Bronx. The Rolling Stones were the mummy's boys--they were all college students from the outskirts of London. They went to starve in London, but it was by choice, to give themselves some sort of aura of disrespectability. I did like the Stones, but they were never anywhere near the Beatles--not for humour, not for originality, not for songs, not for presentation. All they had was Mick Jagger dancing about. Fair enough, the Stones made great records, but they were always s**t on stage, whereas the Beatles were the gear.

I kiss him to shut him up, letting him feel how good he makes me feel. I kiss him for so many reasons, all of them tangled around one simple, innocuous little four-letter-word that holds more power than I ever imagined. I now know why my father could never move on after my mother’s death. He was a romantic. And a true romantic would never recover from losing his love.

I wanted to dash myself against your rocks like a wave, to obliterate my old self and see what rose shining and new from the sea foam. The only words I had to describe you in those early days were plunging cliffside or primordial sea, crystal-cold stars or a black expanse of sky. I dove down deep into your psyche, turning over every world you gave me like a jewel. Looking for meaning, seeking out the mysteries of you. I didn’t care if I lost myself in the process. I wanted to be brought by the hand into your world and disappear into your kiss until us two could no longer be told apart.

One person cannot change the world. But one person can strike terror into multitudes. —Robert Evans Any demon is capable of cruelty, but only an angel is majestic enough to rain down vengeance for the innocent. —Marcus Evans Little eyes see. Little eyes learn. Be a good example for all the little eyes watching you. They’re everywhere. —Jasmine Evans The wicked can fake nobility, just as the damned can fake innocence. But only the truth will rise from the ashes when we all start to burn. —Victoria Evans A wise man knows when the war is lost, and will understand retreat is the only way to save lives. A foolish man will condemn all his followers to death because of his pride. —Robert Evans If hatred didn’t exist, love wouldn’t either, for one is formed by the other. I love and hate this town. —Marcus Evans I believe the souls of the wrongfully persecuted often haunt our world, bringing the same grief they feel from beyond the grave. —Jasmine Evans Never mock or harm the passionate, for they are the fiercest with their wrath. —Victoria Evans

Fairy tales are more than moral lessons and time capsules for cultural commentary; they are natural law. The child raised on folklore will quickly learn the rules of crossroads and lakes, mirrors and mushroom rings. They’ll never eat or drink of a strange harvest or insult an old woman or fritter away their name as though there’s no power in it. They’ll never underestimate the youngest son or touch anyone’s hairpin or rosebush or bed without asking, and their steps through the woods will be light and unpresumptuous. Little ones who seek out fairy tales are taught to be shrewd and courteous citizens of the seen world, just in case the unseen one ever bleeds over.

My mother once told me that trauma is like Lord of the Rings. You go through this crazy, life-altering thing that almost kills you (like say having to drop the one ring into Mount Doom), and that thing by definition cannot possibly be understood by someone who hasn’t gone through it. They can sympathize sure, but they’ll never really know, and more than likely they’ll expect you to move on from the thing fairly quickly. And they can’t be blamed, people are just like that, but that’s not how it works. Some lucky people are like Sam. They can go straight home, get married, have a whole bunch of curly headed Hobbit babies and pick up their gardening right where they left off, content to forget the whole thing and live out their days in peace. Lots of people however, are like Frodo, and they don’t come home the same person they were when they left, and everything is more horrible and more hard then it ever was before. The old wounds sting and the ghost of the weight of the one ring still weighs heavy on their minds, and they don’t fit in at home anymore, so they get on boats go sailing away to the Undying West to look for the sort of peace that can only come from within. Frodos can’t cope, and most of us are Frodos when we start out. But if we move past the urge to hide or lash out, my mother always told me, we can become Pippin and Merry. They never ignored what had happened to them, but they were malleable and receptive to change. They became civic leaders and great storytellers; they we able to turn all that fear and anger and grief into narratives that others could delight in and learn from, and they used the skills they had learned in battle to protect their homeland. They were fortified by what had happened to them, they wore it like armor and used it to their advantage. It is our trauma that turns us into guardians, my mother told me, it is suffering that strengthens our skin and softens our hearts, and if we learn to live with the ghosts of what had been done to us, we just may be able to save others from the same fate.