Swamp Thing Alan Moore Quotes

There are people. There are stories. The people think they shape the stories, but the reverse if often closer to the truth. Stories shape the world. They exist independently of people, and in places quite devoid of man, there may yet be mythologies.

Please, don't go. It's lonely. There's a hole in my head as big as the world and it's so very lonely...

Swamp Thing, in Hell: "Demon...How...could God...allow such a place? Etrigan: Think you God built this place, wishing man ill and not lusts uncontrolled or swords unsheathed? Not God, my friend. The truth's more hideous still: These halls were carved by men while yet they breathed. God is no parent or policeman grim dispensing treats or punishments to all. Each soul climbs or descends by its own whim. He mourns, but He cannot prevent their fall. We suffer as we choose. Nothing's amiss. All torments are deserved...

If you wear black, then kindly, irritating strangers will touch your arm consolingly and inform you that the world keeps on turning. They're right. It does. However much you beg it to stop. It turns and lets grenadine spill over the horizon, sends hard bars of gold through my window and I wake up and feel happy for three seconds and then I remember. It turns and tips people out of their beds and into their cars, their offices, an avalanche of tiny men and women tumbling through life... All trying not to think about what's waiting at the bottom. Sometimes it turns and sends us reeling into each other's arms. We cling tight, excited and laughing, strangers thrown together on a moving funhouse floor. Intoxicated by the motion we forget all the risks. And then the world turns... And somebody falls off... And oh God it's such a long way down. Numb with shock, we can only stand and watch as they fall away from us, gradually getting smaller... Receding in our memories until they're no longer visible. We gather in cemeteries, tense and silent as if for listening for the impact; the splash of a pebble dropped into a dark well, trying to measure its depth. Trying to measure how far we have to fall. No impact comes; no splash. The moment passes. The world turns and we turn away, getting on with our lives... Wrapping ourselves in comforting banalities to keep us warm against the cold. "Time's a great healer." "At least it was quick." "The world keeps turning." Oh Alec— Alec's dead.

Yes, of course, the whole idea is utterly inane, but to let its predictable inanities blind you to its truly fabulous and breathtaking aspects is to do both oneself and the genre a disservice.

You have waged bitter and undeclared war upon the green, gutting the rain forests, mile after mile, day after day, but know this: the war has come home! It is man's turn to embrace the scythe.

It's raining in Washington tonight. Plump, warm summer rain that covers the sidewalks with leopard spots. Downtown, elderly ladies carry their houseplants out to set them on the fire-escapes, as if they were infirm relatives or Boy Kings. I like that.

Maybe the world has run out of room for monsters... or maybe... they're just getting harder to recognize.

There is a house above the world, where the over-people gather. There is a man with wings like a bird.. there is a man who can sea across the planet and wring diamonds from its anthracite. There is a man who moves so fast that his life is an endless gallery of statues..In the house above the world the over-people gather..To a fry, mad voice that whispers of earthdeath.

In the heart of darkness, a flower blossoms, enriching the shadows with its promise of hope... In the fields of light, an adder coils, and the radiant tranquility is lent savor by its sinister presence. Right and wrong, black and white, good and evil...all my existence I have looked from one to the other, fully embracing neither one...never before have I understood how much they depend on each other.

Uglier than death backin' outta the outhouse readin' mad magazine and crazy as a football bat.

Existen personas. Existen historias. Las personas creen modelar las historias, pero lo contrario suele acercarse más a la verdad. Las historias modelan el mundo. Existen independientemente de las gentes. En lugares donde no hay hombres, también hay mitologías. Los glaciares tienen sus leyendas. El océano canta sus propios romances.

There is something in death akin to that which exists in love: both spur men to eloquence.

Do we immerse ourselves in fictional horror as a way of numbing our emotions to it's real-life counterpart ?

Everything is made of stories. They've all happened before, in similar circumstances. It's like a circle. It goes round and round and round.

The city is all about him, a defiant surge of stone and steel and glass that forces back the surrounding wilderness, jealously establishing its rigid grey territory.

One colour. One word. So many shades. The color of african skin, of shadow on snow, of a jay's throat, the color of saxophones at dusk, of orbiting police lights smeared across tenement windows, of a flame's intestines, of the faint tracery of veins visible beneath the ghost-flesh of her forearm's underside, of loneliness, of melancholy. The blues.

There is more to life than the material world. The truth most painful to the heart is that which makes the spirit stronger. And it is the strength of the spirit that will be needed when the physical crisis is over.

Ayrıca köle rolü için yerli halktan bir sürü siyahi insanı işe almışlar. Buralı olmayanların o tadı vermediğini düşünmüşler. Yani zamanında özgürlüğüne kavuşan kölelerin torunları şimdi tekrar köle olarak güzel para kazanıyor. Güler misin ağlar mısın?

See, as it happens, I've got a couple of front row tickets for the end of the universe. I thought it'd be best to use them now. I mean, you never know... There may not be a second performance.