Soul Eater Quotes

Sometimes bad things need to be reminded they're not the only ones who can bite.

You can love a monster, it can even love you back, but that doesn’t change its nature. This isn’t Beauty and the Beast where my kiss would transform the monster to a prince. If anything, it’s Shrek, and his kiss brings out the ogre in me.

Soul: As a cool guy, I'm used to seeing naked women. Blair: That explains the nosebleed

The root of all fear is imagination.

Naivety is cured with time. Stupidity is terminal.

Like any fatherless child, I've wondered about the man responsible for the glory that is me. Needless to say, it's disappointing to learn he's the kind who'd probably eat his young.

...compulsive eating is basically a refusal to be fully alive. No matter what we weigh, those of us who are compulsive eaters have anorexia of the soul. We refuse to take in what sustains us. We live lives of deprivation. And when we can't stand it any longer, we binge. The way we are able to accomplish all of this is by the simple act of bolting -- of leaving ourselves -- hundreds of times a day.

I'm pretty sure Jo couldn't talk about the weather without somehow including a threat. Forecast today: cloudy with a chance I'll kick your ass.

I don't know how to deal with this!

We are all eaters of souls.

What a foolish thing, the human heart, being both fragile and reckless. No wonder we spend such an inordinate amount of time in pain.

What do you say to your best friend when you stand at the gates of the gates of hell? Nothing. If it’s your best friend, she already knows.

Come in, Martise." Silhara's voice was almost sibilant in the darkness as he tagged on her hand. "There are no soul eaters here." No, she thought. Only heart thieves.

They fight with a bloodthirstiness I wouldn't expect outside a maximum-security prison or suburban PTA meeting.

It’s illegal, you know,” he murmurs. “Stealing.” I clear my throat. “Stealing?” “My heart. I could have you arrested.” I snort. “For that tiny thing? I’d get a misdemeanor at most.

Well, you know what they say about babies.” The soul eater smirked. “What’s that?” “Don’t underestimate the amount of shit they can bring.

What about the Symmetry?!

She regards me the same way I would a cat – like I’m distasteful, occasionally entertaining, and not to be trusted not to pee on the rug. Which is completely unfair – I only thought about it once.

Crush! Kill! And above all - cackle!

I'm worthless garbage that can't even write a straight looking K!

I’ve wanted you from the beginning, my sweet human,” he rasped, his distorted voice so very inhuman and so achingly familiar to me now. “And I will want you until the end.

Back in my day, we had it all set up. You lined up when you died, and you'd answer for your evil deeds and your good deeds, and if your evil deeds outweighed a feather, we'd feed your soul and your heart to Ammet, the Eater of Souls" "He must have eaten a lot of people." "Not as many as you'd think. It was a really heavy feather. We had it made special. You had better be pretty damn evil to tip the scales on that baby...

Stupid Crusaders with their stupid rules. For a homicidal group, they’re appallingly restrictive. No, Meda, you can’t leave campus. No, Meda, you know we have a curfew. No, Meda, you can’t eat that guy.

Because the dumb slut slept with him, and he’s too nice to–” WHAM, out of nowhere he nose-butts me in the fist!

Do you know where hell is? It's up here, in your head.

Chi's faith means nothing, because it has nothing to do with me. Chi's faith is blind. He doesn't see me. But Jo does. Jo always has.

I love you." His voice shook the tiniest amount, making my heart swell too big for my chest. "More than anything in this universe. But you can't tell anyone.

Death is my art form--when I fight, I'm a ballerina. Graceful. Chi lacks my grace, but makes up for it in energy and enthusiasm. His fighting style is like breakdancing--strong and frenetic with some really sweet moves. Jo's is . . .the Macarena. Ugly but gets the job done.

I'm pretty durable, but concrete and I have faced off before. While I didn't die, I wouldn't say I won, either.

A human teenager. One of God’s most misbegotten creatures – big like grown-ups and yet dumb like children.

Now c'mon - if we die, we die cool.

It was pretty late and the streets were quiet so she was almost sure no one had seen her drag the soul eater into the alley... where she cut his head off with a samurai sword. God, she loved her life.

But I am not sick, or crazy, or broken. I am Meda Melange, demon-saint monster girl. I make full-grown men scream in terror. I break bones and drain blood. I turn nightmares into reality. I am the most powerful creature on earth. I do not wear a leash.

You're in my blood now, Danny Sullihan. I'll always be able to find you.

I suppose it should bother me to be so hated but, without it, I wouldn’t have the delight of torturing them with my presence. What can I say? My cheerful spirit can’t help but spot silver linings.

I nod and wave to my enemies like Miss America, pausing to blow kisses at the worst of them as I work my way across the cafeteria with a plate loaded with horridly healthy food.

You don't have to be a doormat to be good. Even good people are allowed self-defense.

Have you forgotten," she said in a furious whisper, "that he nearly killed us? That he threw my quiver in the stream, and threatened to snap my bow?" It was unclear which she considered worse: threatening them or her bow.

There’s this guy I came across, not far from here. I thought we could, you know,” he makes a short slashing motion across his neck. “He seems like the kinda guy you’d go for. In a homicidal way, I mean.” “You arranged a murder?” Awww, that’s so sweet.

Your death, strange human. I mean, your injury. No murder, just a little maiming. So I can leave. Maiming’s not so bad.

I laugh. “How exactly do you see this…” I wave between the two of us, unable to come up with a descriptor “Beautiful friendship?” he supplies with a devilish grin. “…going?” I finish, ignoring him. “Us being mortal enemies and all.” “I prefer the term ‘star-crossed lovers.’” I snort. “Regardless, it can’t end well.” “The best romances don’t.

Get him! My hormones scream. Don’t fall for it, my brain cautions. Pretty! They whine. Stupid hormones. Calm down, hormones. We are just pumping him – (really brain, you chose the word pumping?) – for information. He is literally evil. We need to keep our distance.

Rotten boys with their rotten eyes with their ridiculous rotten eyelashes. They suck a girl in, a pair of Venus fly-traps. No, Venus eye-traps.

Listen to the beat of your soul ~Soul Eater

Samson's tapping feet come closer, but again he pauses and knocks on a door. I don't mind. The pauses make it better. They make me wonder whether he's going to come to me, like the anticipation before a kiss. Will he or won't he? But this is not a love story.

You said you’d cooperate.” I knew I’d regret my promise, just not quite this soon. “You don’t wear pink!” “Yeah, well, no one thinks I’m in league with the devil.” She shoves it into my chest. I narrow my eyes. “I do.

Colton suspects we’re not just children, that we are, in fact, the terrifying things that go bump in the night. But, no, that’s wrong. Not things that bump. Bumps are clumsy and inelegant. They are sounds made by creatures not at home in the darkness. I don’t bump. I crunch in the night. I crack; I splatter; I splash. But I never, ever bump.

Some might call me a “tease”, but don’t believe it. “Tease” implies that I owe him something, that I should feel guilty. As if my flirtation is forced on him and he merely tolerates it for an eventual pay-out. That’s bullshit. We both have goals in our little game; why should his goal (sex) take priority over mine (to mess with his head)? Is it because he’s a man? In that case I must object on principle. Superhero Meda establishing gender-equality one almost-kiss at a time!

Jo turns towards me. Her voice is calm but now I see her eyes blaze in a holy hazel fire. She doesn’t want to die, but she will, for what she believes in. I need new friends.

Its not that you don't know how to deal with people. Its just that no one ever took the time to deal with you.

It's him, it whispered in the back of my cluttered mind. Some old instinct I'd long forgotten. See him. See him. And when I finally did, I knew him instantly. When I saw him, I recognised him straight away. Even if his face wasn't yet familiar to me. He was mine. He was everything.

Those of us who live with twisted bits like to think we can overcome them.

But worries are for people who can’t pull grown men apart with their bare hands.

don’t know what humans need. You need so many things to stay alive, it’s pathetic.

Forget them, Meda. Forget her.” He reaches up and puts his hand on the side of my face, tugging it toward him. “I like you as you are. Good, evil, whatever. All I care about is that you’re alive. Please, Meda.

And, lastly, there’s a small pack of wide-eyed innocents in awe of my Beacon-ness who follow me around expecting me to perform a miracle any minute. Sometimes I screw up my face like I’m trying. Or constipated.

He either had a great deal of faith in my ability to escape (fair enough, I do rock), or he’s full of shit – sadly, that’s the more likely option.

I have known kings and criminals. I prefer criminals. They cheat, steal and betray, but at least you don't have to worship them while they do it.

I eye the three of them, considering. They’ll need a lesson in discretion before I go. Not a lethal lesson. Mom wouldn’t like that.

Turns out I’m only ‘mom-special’. Special like a snowflake is special. Special like a school kid on honor roll.

You're mine, Danny Sullihan. I've been waiting for you for a long time.

My hands twitch and wiggle. Jo sees them, shakes her head and mouths, “Sit on your hands.” She can’t be serious. As if my butt would stop my hands even if it could. Does she not realize it’s in league with the rest of me?

You were the first human to treat me with something other than contempt or disgust.” My breath caught in my chest, and I went still as Wyn spoke. “I decided to give you a chance at survival.

I have nothing left? Then ill be alright.

While I’m all delighted joy, she’s angry revenge, which is pretty adorable on a six year-old, even a dead one – like a wet kitten.

You mother-f–” “Yes, actually, I am. All part of the job.

As parties go, the food is good but the hosts are complete assholes.

My teeth rip skin; my jaws snap bones. I am fast, lightning-fast, snuff— oh-was-that-your-life?—oh-was-that-your-life?— fast.

That’s what I get for playing with fire,” he grumbles, rubbing his head. It can’t hurt too badly – his head is far too hard. “And here I always thought I was the one playing with fire. You being the bad boy.” “Nope,” he says, dropping down beside me. “The one playing with fire is the one most likely to get burned.

Right and wrong are determined by the people who hold positions of authority, that's the way it has always been so how then can anyone know this truth you speak of? Don't you see that truth long ago became a shadow of itself, it's a mere echo of the past now... The world is one big moral gray area, it just makes you feel safer that it can be categorized into good and bad that's not actually how it works.

They studied the phenomenon at Harvard.” “They studied soul-stealing at Harvard?” “What else do you think they do in business school? In any case, it’s called the Ikea effect.” “As in furniture?

I study the little creature in front of me. What is it about these dwarfish little humans? They lack smarts, lack skills and they never seem to have much money. Yet they are powerful little monsters – adults dance to the tunes played by their chubby little fingers. Is it the disproportionately big head? Or the eyes too big for that head? Did I have this effect on my own mother? Was that why she believed in my goodness, despite all evidence to the contrary? Suddenly the lower lip pokes out and the eyes grow even bigger. I feel a tug in the region where my heart should be… I want to give it things… Ahhhhhh! Look away! Look away! Evil, ensnaring, hypnotic monster. Just kidding, but it is kind of cute. I feed it a cracker.

Maybe the problem is that demons belong with demons. Because they’re both takers. One takes from the other but she doesn’t miss it because she’s taking just as much from him. Like children with straws in each other’s milkshakes.” He pauses. “They would be as sneaky and mean in love as they are in everything else; but they’d also both be full and happy.

You are a total nerd.” Not what he’s expecting, the darkness wiped away by a startled laugh. “What?” “Why else would you possibly know that?” I say it like I’m piecing together a puzzle – and I’m appalled by the picture it’s making. “You’re a nerd. A complete nerd. You nerdified sex. That just happened.

For here was the thing that no fairy tale would ever admit, but that she understood in that moment: love was not inherently good. Certainly, it could inspire goodness. She didn’t argue that. Poets would tell you that love was electricity in your veins that could light a room. That it was a river in your soul to lift you up and carry you away, or a fire inside the heart to keep you warm. Yet electricity could also fry, rivers could drown, and fires could burn; love could be destructive. Punishingly, fatally destructive. And the other thing, the real bloody clincher of it all, was that the good and the bad didn’t get served up equally. If love were a balance of electric lights and electric jolts, two sides of an equally weighted coin, then fair enough. She could deal. That wasn’t how it worked, though. Some love was just the bad, all the time: an endless parade of electrified bones and drowned lungs and hearts that burned to a cinder inside the cage of your chest. And so she looked down at her son and loved him with the kind of twisted, complex feeling that came from having never wanted him in the first place; she loved him with bitterness, and she loved him with resignation. She loved him though she knew no good could ever come from such a bond.

The cold never bothers me when I’m filled with the hot soup of bad souls. Nevertheless I make a show of shivering. Chi strips off his leather vest and I hold it as he peels off his hoodie, pulling his shirt up with it. I get an eyeful of carved six-pack abs and bite back a whistle. Demon-hunting must be good for the physique. The looks of an angel and yet all it makes me want to do is sin.

No, I should kill him. He said himself he would eventually go back to the demons. But he turns long-lashed eyes on me, full of entreaty, as if he were saying: please, please let me come murder the molester with you. How do you say “no” to eyes like those? They are a magical combination of sex and puppy. Better than it sounds, I promise.

And since when does Hell have royalty? I thought they were all bureaucrats.” “Oh, sweetie,” he says, patronizing. “That’s cute.” “What’s cute?” “That you think celebrity children of powerful people aren’t royalty.” “Are you accusing me of being a Hilton?” I sputter. “Or a, a–” my head might explode, “Kardashian?” “The Hellish equivalent.

The pauses make it better. They make me wonder whether he's going to come to me, like the anticipation before a kiss. Will he or won't he? But this is not a love story.

Ah well, no rest for the wicked and all that. I’ll just have to kill him myself.

Oooooh, don’t make her mad!” the leader gasps around his laughter.

What we did and who we were are just dregs compared to who we are now and how we act when the sword is coming down.

He moves and my eyes snap open, freezing him in place. "You're right. I am like you." I breathe, then shake my head very slowly, holding his eyes. "But that doesn't help you any.

So stop being a fuckin' coward, Wyn the Soul Eater." I knocked my fist against his chest. "If you really don't want me- no other excuses, just me- just tell me right now, and I'll leave and we'll be done. Otherwise, start getting used to the fucking fact that you can't protect me from everything. And I'm not made of glass. I can handle myself. I can look after myself." I drew myself up, squaring my shoulders. "And if we both want to be together, we're going to fuckin' be together.

And, like Christmas, Armand has brought gifts. But he is no fat, sweet Santa Claus who rewards the nice; he is the Lord of Misrule, the Abbot of Unreason in charge of scandalous fun.

I hear Jo in my head trying to douse the fire in my heart. “Be good, Meda.” Good, good, good, good, good. The word plays in a loop until it means nothing. I’ve been good and they refuse to feed me. I’ve been good and they won’t train me. I’ve been good and they changed the locks. I’ve been good and they want to send me away.

I hear myself laughing, screeching, cackling. The world is red hot and pulsing. On fire [...] I stroll down the corridor and the flickering fluorescents celebrate my passing, humming in praise. I spin, bow and hum along. Bloody footprints trail; bloody fingers smear the walls.

But of course that desire had woken up now. Of course my weird, stupid brain and body would decide that the person worthy of the unrequited lust of Danny Sullihan was an ancient death monster who probably regarded me as a tolerable, but still irritating, lesser life form companion. Like a dog or something.

Something warm unfurled in the pit of my stomach, and I glanced over at Wyn, not sure what to say. Before I could say anything, though, he spoke again. “If I’d known you were this annoying and talkative, I may have decided differently.

He doesn’t back down under my accusations. Instead he leans in, his big frame curving over me like a wave. “I would do all that and more.” His tone betrays a carefully restrained ferocity, and I see in him, shifting and fluttering, behind his eyes the monster I’ve always known is there. It makes my breath catch, the beautiful horror of it. He doesn’t try to hide it, if anything he leans in closer, filling my vision until he fills the world. Him and his dark devil’s eyes.

Kid... I must ask you to please refrain from reorganizing the contents of my book without my permission...' Noah 'Hmph. If you plan on keeping me locked up in this book, then you can at least keep the thing properly organized.' Death the Kid

Food habits may affect mind. But for connecting your soul to the power of nothingness, you have to detach both from the eater (your body-mind) and the eaten (your food). Compassion detaches you, but pride or guilt of having a particular food habit attaches you.

A loyal demon? Who knew,” Jo jeers, and I want to hit her. “No,” Armand’s voice lashes out. “It’s predictably selfish.

She regards me the same way I would a cat – like I’m distasteful, occasionally entertaining, and not to be trusted not to pee on the rug. Which is completely unfair – I only thought about it once.

Your soul may well consist of artists and artisans, crooks and charlatans, writers and wanderers, poets and performers, vagabonds and visionaries, cigar box jugglers and contortionists, sword swallowers, storey-tellers and snake worshippers, fire eaters and fire dancers, human cannonballs, treasure hunters, swashbuckling pirates, pilgrims, Bedouin tribesmen and Gypsies. Everything that’s rash and wild inside of you is striving for freedom. And I’m not asking for this to hit you like an epiphany. It’s not supposed to. But if you read that list of misfits above and gave just the tiniest of nods – even at a deep subliminal level – then you understand

Back in my day, we had it all set up. You line up when you die, and you answer for your evil deeds and for your good deeds, and if your evil deeds outweighed a feather, we’d feed your soul and your heart to Ammet, the Eater of Souls.” “He must have eaten a lot of people.” “Not as many as you’d think. It was a really heavy feather.

The fire-eater? The swordsman? The gentleman who nearly drowns each night… do you believe they’d be welcomed into the circles you belong to?” He shook his head. “Society scorned them, turned them into freak shows and curiosities, and now they are only interested in cheering because of the glamour of those velvet curtains. The allure of magic and mysticism. Should they encounter those same performers on the street, they would not be so kind or accepting. It is a sad truth that we do not live in a world where differences are accepted. And until such a time, Miss Wadsworth, I will provide a home to the misfits and unwanteds, even if it means losing bits of my soul to that hungry, unsatisfied beast Mr. Barnum has called show business.

compulsive eating is basically a refusal to be fully alive. No matter what we weigh, those of us who are compulsive eaters have anorexia of the soul. We refuse to take in what sustains us. We live lives of deprivation. And when we can’t stand it any longer, we binge. The way we are able to accomplish all of this is by the simple act of bolting—of leaving ourselves—hundreds of times a day.

[They] believed that the worst way to die, was far from home. That one’s soul traveled the earth, lost forever. But this place was as much her home as [California]. She had lived out some of the most important parts of her life here – and if that didn’t qualify a place as home, what did?

How do you weigh a soul? Is it heavy with love or hate? Does it deny the things it's done? Does it even remember its own name? Does it miss those it has loved? Does it long for the life it's lost? How do you weigh a soul? After it has paid the highest cost, Does it lose the will to live? Without a physical shell Does it sense without hands That can touch and truly feel Does it need sustenance to last? A cold drink or warm meal How do you weigh a soul? Are souls even real?