Vincent Price Quotes

A man who limits his interests limits his life.

It takes great courage to open one's heart and mind to the tremendous injustice and suffering in our world.

I couldn't resist another grin. "So...is there a family discount?" "Hell, no. Nash is paying full price. Plus tip.

What's important about an actor is his acting, not his life.

It's as much fun to scare as to be scared.

In art, religion, and politics the respect must be mutual, no matter how violent the disagreement.

There's something fascinating about seeing something you don't like at first but directly know you will love—in time. People are that way, all through life. You come against a personality, and it questions yours. You shy away but know there are gratifying secrets there, and the half-open door is often more exciting than the wide.

Do you ever rub your eyes and suddenly find you're awake and not asleep, as you'd grown to suspect you were?

There comes a time in life when you know what you like and have to make up your mind to like what you know, or at least have begun to know. In other words, you must determine in what direction your knowledge is leading, thus far.

We may all be a peculiar lot...often broke, often dissatisfied because we're not doing more and better work...but we know how to have a ball that makes the rest of the world seem square.

I trust people who are violent about art, as long as they aren't closed-minded. But, unfortunately, most art blowhards are also art bigots.

I know what I like—I like art—and I like what I know.

In order to get out of the dumps, there are many steps to walk up, and most of the ones I know of, not only for myself but others, are made of money.

I'm extremely profane, unconsciously so, when I see something great for the first time; I don't know why, but beauty and profanity are related to me in the same way. It may be that I want to think of art in the vernacular, but I have no control over what comes out of my mouth when my eyes take in great beauty...it might just be the reason I avoid going to museums with elderly ladies.

Well, what do you owe yourself? Do you dare take time out to listen to the grass grow, or can you even afford the expense of getting far enough away from life's daily cacophony to hear it grow if you took the time?

Sometimes you read a passage by a great writer, and you know what he says and how he says it will always be, for you, the only possible way it could be. Less often a painter will describe an event in a way that fits into your interpretation of that event so perfectly that it becomes the event itself.

It is quite obvious that you do not understand me, and in all probability, you never will.

Art is excitement which if we can't create ourselves, we can at least, through love of it, make available to others.

San Diego has the finest zoo in America, but the Los Angeles Zoo is not much more than a home for retired Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lions.

The follower of fashion can be as honest as the leader of the rebellion against it.

One thing is certain: the arts keep you alive. They stimulate, encourage, challenge, and, most of all, guarantee a future free from boredom. They allow growth and even demand it in that time of life we call maturity but too often enter it with a childish faith that what we learned in youth is sustenance enough for the years when most men are mentally famished but won't admit it—or when they are apt to curb their hunger with the sops of complacency, security, and the assurance of death.

I have come more and more to the belief that we owe our arts a thousand times what we are paying them. We support our cigarette factories, soap manufacturers, beauticians, all the luxury and pleasure businesses of our over-indulged civilization, but we pay our painters an average wage... and yet when the future digs us from the past they won't care how we smell, what we smoke, or if we bathed. All they’ll know of us will be our architecture, our paintings, sculpture, poems, laws, philosophy, drama, our pottery and fabrics, the things which our hands made and our minds thought up - oh, the machines they’ll dig up too, but perhaps they’ll point to them as our destruction, the wheels that drove us down to death.

I was never educated to be an actor. I went to a regular college. It was a great thing for me because I feel that the main thing to get out of college is a thirst for knowledge. College should teach you how to be curious. Most people think that college is the end of education, but it isn't. The ceremony of giving you the diploma is called commencement. And that means you are fit to commence learning because you have learned how to learn.

Right at this moment, I only want silence. I believe that the end of life is silence in the love people have for you. I've actually been running through what people have said about the end. Religion says that the end is one thing, because it serves their purpose. But great thinkers alike haven't always agreed. Shakespeare knew how to say it better than anyone else. Hamlet says 'The rest is silence.' And when you think of the noises of everyday life, you realize how particularly desirable that is. Silence.

If I could prescribe a single rule for looking at a work of art it would be to enjoy it. If we're honest with ourselves, we have to admit we enjoy our tears just as much as we enjoy our laughter. The only moments of life that are a bore are when we don't care one way or another.

Nevertheless, Los Angeles is my "Home, Sweet Home." I chose it, and, as goes the cliché, I've made my bed—but I'll be damned if I'll lie in it or, worse, culturally die in it!

I’m always intrigued by my nonsensical concern with picking out a bunch of things that look exactly alike the ones that somehow I feel are the best and belong to me. It’s that same crazy urge or superstition, or whatever it is, that makes me open a Bible in a hotel room, hoping for some great happenstance spiritual word of advice. More often than not, I hit a long passage of begats and begots, which contain little inspiration other than the fact that procreation is the highest aim of life.

I do, however, get along fine with apes and I have worked sack of potatoes in front of the camera. Trainers tell me they like my voice and that because I treat them as people they like me. Well, it’s easy to do, since some of them are people and easier to work with than some—people, I mean actors.

I blew my nose, blotted my eyes, buried as much of my face as I could in my handkerchief, and blurted out a feeble: "Sorry...something in my eye." The voice said: "Yes...beauty.

After all, a love of art is a fine thing for a young boy, but art is long—and life can be pretty damned long too, without our just desserts!

What did he do? Channel Vincent Price and transport the Tower of London'to the Hollywood Hills?

Many Hollywoodians may have good taste and an interest in culture but they certainly hide it. They're afraid they'll be branded as sissies if someone finds out they write poetry or own a painting. They're so timid about culture.

What do you do when you find yourself out in a lie—even a white one? Well, one thing for sure, you don't put on black, you don't mourn and beat out a staccato mea culpa on your breast. You go! Get the hell out! Take a chance! Forget you're an American, living in the suburbs of success, hoping to move into the big city...You go!

Art is love-times-love; the creator loves it and his audience adores it. To miss the sensation of loving art is to miss a kind of parenthood—false pregnancy perhaps—but as Van Gogh said, "If, defrauded of the power to create physically, a man tries to create thoughts in place of children, he is still part of humanity"...a big part.

The story ends with a crack the actor Hans Conreid made on seeing my two hundred black and white pots. Said Hans, "You're one actor no one will ever be able to say he hasn't got a pot to..." End quote.

The jet is a great invention. Besides being a world shrinker, par excellence, it has much of the quality and charm of a roller coaster. And it's big. Once, years ago, on a ten-stop, cross-country air trip, I turned to the man next to me and said, quite genuinely: "What keeps these big goddam things up in the air?

The main thing in life is survival. And survival is not just staying alive. It is also a constant effort to grow and to learn and to work.

Mother had told me her favorite story about a little Protestant lady who, on being told that the candle at the high altar in St. Peter's had not been out for a thousand years, pursed her lips and extinguished it, saying, "Well, it's out now.

Right now I am thinking of writing another cookbook. All cookbooks have a gimmick, and mine will be that it contains recipes that I have invented and named after famous people. Some of them are: Brisket of Brynner (very lean meat) Carson Casserole (it's got everything on it) Barbecued Walters Marinated Maude Roasted Rhoda King King Curry (it will feed about eight thousand people) Fricassee of Fonzi Pickled Rickles Raquel Relish Leftovers à la Gabors

The policeman interrogated Edie for half an hour. With his droning voice, and his mirror sunglasses, it was slightly like being interrogated by The Fly in the Vincent Price horror movie of the same name.

There’s another familiar adage: “Every dog has his day.” Well, Joe and most dogs I’ve known have not only their day but most of mine and parts of other people’s, too. When the day isn’t theirs, you’d better get them to the vet’s. They’re sick. So,

Ironically, the rich who can afford extravagance are the ones who benefit the most from cheap commodities. They buy bulk and get robust discounts. They have what it takes to trap a valuable possession when it is reduced to a fling away price, due to desperation. Thus the rich keep getting richer.

Recent evidence confirms that retail prices of essential consumer goods in poor countries are not appreciably lower than in the United States or Western Europe. In fact, with deregulation and "free trade", the cost of living in many Third World cities is now higher than in the United States. My experience in Latin America and Haiti is that the prices of meat, fish and fresh vegetables are about the same as in the United States. Can you imagine eating on less than one dollar a day?

The day will come, however, when people will see they are worth more than the price of the paint and my living expenses, very meagre on the whole, which we put into them”_ Page.419

You’d be surprised what everyone in Hollywood got up to in those days.

The fact that the United States has political, economic, and legal structures that do indeed create incentives to control hazards (in the workplace) is one the reasons the corporations have moved to Latin America and Asia.

Trade is slow here. The great dealers sell Millet, Delacroix, Corot, Daubigny, Dupré, a few other masters at exorbitant prices. They do little or nothing for young artists. The second class dealers contrariwise sell those at very low prices.

We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.

We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’t like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.

The two of them had fallen into the habit of bartering knowledge whenever she visited. He schooled her in jazz, in bebop and exotic bossa nova, playing his favorites for her while he painted- Slim Gaillard, Rita Reys, King Pleasure, and Jimmy Giuffre- stabbing the air with his brush when there was a particular passage he wanted her to note. In turn, she showed him the latest additions to her birding diary- her sketches of the short-eared owl and American wigeon, the cedar waxwing and late warblers. She explained how the innocent-looking loggerhead shrike killed its prey by biting it in the back of the neck, severing the spinal cord before impaling the victim on thorns or barbed wire and tearing it apart. "Good grief," he'd said, shuddering. "I'm in the clutches of an avian Vincent Price.

We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.” We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.

finding that she was determined to get to the bottom of what seemed to him a very trivial affair, extricated himself without hesitation or compunction by advising her to apply to Vincent for information, since he was the instigator of the quarrel. Before he could make good his retreat, however, he was incensed and appalled by a command to go immediately to Vincent's room, and to inform him that his mama desired to have speech with him before he went down to breakfast. Since it was the time-honoured practice of the brothers to sacrifice each other in such situations as now confronted Claud, it was not fear of Vincent's wrath at finding himself betrayed which prompted Claud to despatch Polyphant on the errand, but the knowledge that not even a messenger bearing gifts of great price would meet with anything but the rudest of receptions from Vincent at this hour of the morning.

At length, one evening towards the end of March, the mental clearness of Orange somewhat revived, and he felt himself compelled to get up and put on his clothes. The nurse, thinking that the patient was resting quietly, and fearing the shine of the lamp might distress him, had turned it low and gone away for a little: so it was without interruption, although reeling from giddiness, and scorched with fever, that Rupert groped about till he found some garments, and his evening suit. Clad in these, and throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he went downstairs. Those whom he met, that recognized him, looked at him wonderingly and with a vague dread; but he appeared to have his understanding as well as they, and so he passed through the hall without being stopped; and going into the bar, he called for brandy. The bar-tender, to whom he was known, exclaimed in astonishment; but he got no reply from Orange, who, pouring himself out a large quantity of the fiery liquor found it colder than the coldest iced water in his burning frame. When he had taken the brandy, he went into the street. It was a bleak seasonable night, and a bitter frost-rain was falling: but Orange went through it, as if the bitter weather was a not unwelcome coolness, although he shuddered in an ague-fit. As he stood on the corner of Twenty-third Street, his cloak thrown open, the sleet sowing down on his shirt, and the slush which covered his ankles soaking through his thin shoes, a member of his club came by and spoke to him. "Why, good God! Orange, you don't mean to say you're out on a night like this! You must be much better--eh?" he broke off, for Orange had given him a grey look, with eyes in which there was no speculation; and the man hurried away scared and rather aghast. "These poet chaps are always queer fishes," he muttered uneasily, as he turned into the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Of the events of terror and horror which happened on that awful night, when a human soul was paying the price of an astonishing violation of the order of the universe, no man shall ever tell. Blurred, hideous, and enormous visions of dives, of hells where the worst scum of the town consorted, of a man who spat on him, of a woman who struck him across the face with her umbrella, calling him the foulest of names--visions such as these, and more hateful than these, presented themselves to Orange, when he found himself, at three o'clock in the morning, standing under a lamp-post in that strange district of New York called "The Village." ("The Bargain Of Rupert Orange")

The room was suddenly too hot, and the walls seemed to be closing in around her. She had to get away, to get fresh air, before she screamed. “Please, excuse me,” Lydia said before fleeing. *** “Well,” Ian drawled, leaning back in his chair. “That went well.” Vincent ignored him and turned to Miss Hobson with an icy glare. “You did inform Lydia that she is to wed, did you not?” The woman’s chin lifted in a vain attempt to hide her anxiety. “I’d assumed she understood her responsibility as a young lady of noble birth.” Her voice quavered defensively. “She’d spoken of having a Season in New Orleans. How was I to know things may have been different there?” Vincent cursed as the matter became clear. “Because her father failed to perform his responsibility to Society when he married for love… Bloody hell, I should have known!” “Vincent.” The duke’s voice was implacable. “My wife will not sponsor the young woman if she is not willing.” Miss Hobson sighed. “Surely she could not expect something so fanciful as love.” Vincent ignored the chaperone and faced Ian. “I am certain we can persuade Miss Price to see reason. She has been receptive to all other aspects of taking her place in Society.” Ian swirled the brandy in the glass before giving a slight nod. “No doubt her grief remains for the loss of her parents.” Miss Hobson nodded. “A reasonable assumption, Your Grace. I’m certain she’ll collect herself after a while and be down soon.” Ten

Miss Price is a delightful young lady and a fine painter.” Vincent regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Ah yes, I am well aware of your scheme to throw her in the path of Sir Thomas Lawrence.” Sally shook her head vigorously. “It is not like that, my lord. We do not want him seducing her. We wanted to place him in your path so you may tell us how he fares, since we aren’t allowed to see for ourselves.” “And so she may receive the guidance she desires for her portraits,” Maria chimed in. “She is very talented for one of such youth and inexperience and—” He held up a hand. “I know what your intentions are. And I am not overly worried about the painter toying with her heart. He has to be past fifty by now—” “Fifty-three,” they both interrupted. “And balding and gout-ridden if your wishes have come true. At any rate, I would not permit her to be alone with the man for a second, and neither will her chaperone.” Maria nodded. “That woman is a dragon if I’ve ever seen the like.” “So

Lord Deveril, I humbly request Miss Price’s hand in marriage.” A red haze obscured Vincent’s sight, blurring out the scrawny lad in front of him. His fangs throbbed with the need to tear the man’s throat and drink down his life. “My lord?” Viscount Bevin asked in a voice tinged with fear. The dandy would do well to be afraid. Vincent took a deep breath and fought to keep his feral instincts under control. This man is doing right by offering for Lydia. It is as I planned. However, he could not bring himself to accept the offer immediately. “The Season has just begun, and I would like my ward to enjoy a portion of it before she settles into wedlock.” How easily those words came. The rest he had to force out. Swallowing the acrid taste in his mouth, he added, “However, I promise to consider your offer.” Briefly, a petulant frown crossed Bevin’s countenance, and Vincent’s fists clenched. Then the young lord bowed. “Thank you, my lord. May I call upon Miss Price tomorrow?” I would rather you call on the devil. Vincent gritted his teeth and nodded. “Forgive me for saying so, my lord.” Bevin peered at him with wide eyes. “You do not look well.” “It is another of my headaches. Now if you will excuse me…” Vincent turned to the window, unable to bear the sight of him a moment longer. “Aubert will see you out.” The moment Bevin departed, Vincent slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands. He hadn’t expected Lydia to receive offers so quickly. More would be forthcoming, and he would have to accept one of them. Soon, she would be out of his life.

Tell me more about Makepeace.” Miss Hobson continued to smile. “He is forty-five, his income is twenty thousand per annum, and he sits a horse well.” “He is too old,” Vincent declared. “What of Threshbury?” The chaperone blinked. “Well, his title is certainly the highest, his income is twenty-three thousand, and he is only thirty-two.” Vincent frowned, though the information should please him. “He sounds like a paragon. Pray tell, does he have any faults?” “Well, he does possess two mistresses. Such is common among gentlemen. Perhaps he will pension one off after he weds.” Miss Hobson lost her cheery tone and avoided his gaze. “I won’t have Lydia wed to a lecher,” he snapped. “What do you know of the viscount?” Miss Hobson lifted her chin and replied with a hint of defiance. “He is twenty-three and fond of art. All accounts say he is a proper gentleman, and his income is more than acceptable at fifteen thousand. He and Miss Price seemed to get on well at her ball and at Almack’s.” “He is too young,” Vincent retorted. The conversation seemed to be like a snare, closing around him tighter with every word. “I am going to White’s for a pint. This damn house reeks of flowers.” An

Do you mean to tell me that right now, my ward is in an underground club, surrounded by ruffians, gambling on an illegal prizefight—which the constable could break up at any time?” Ian nodded. “Not to mention the fact that the crowd often becomes unruly after a particularly diverting match. Fisticuffs are guaranteed every night.” He rose from his seat and beckoned a servant to fetch their coats and top hats. “I suppose we ought to go fetch them now, shall we?” A haze of red encompassed Vincent’s sight as he donned his coat. “How can you be so calm about this? Our women are in danger!” “Nonsense.” Ian chuckled. “Angelica is capable of defending herself. Also, Rafe won’t let any physical harm come to them. However, I am concerned with the possibility of them being thrown into Newgate for breaking numerous laws just by being at that club.” The duke’s words faded as Vincent strode out of White’s, determined to snatch Lydia out of that hovel so fast her head would spin. He was just about to take off in a burst of preternatural speed when Ian clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We must take a hackney.” “But—” Ian waved off Vincent’s protest. “For one thing, if a duke and an earl arrive without a coach, people will take notice. For another, you cannot use your speed to remove Lydia from the club without eliciting the same response. And it simply would not do to be seen walking back to our neighborhood with Miss Price slung over your shoulder like a sack of grain.” “Very well.” Vincent inclined his head in grudging acknowledgment of Ian’s logic. The duke nodded and flagged down a coach. “And remember, we must treat them as young men. We cannot risk revealing their identities, or they truly will be in danger.” Although

I, Vincent Tremayne, Earl of Deveril and Lord of Cornwall, Mark this mortal, Lydia Price, as mine and mine alone. With this Mark I give Lydia my undying protection. Let all others, immortal and mortal alike, who cross her path sense my Mark and know that to act against her is to act against myself and thus set forth my wrath, as I will avenge what is mine.” A

Taking her hands in his, he sank down to kneel before her. “I know we already are engaged, but I never went about it properly. Lydia Price, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?” Gasps permeated the room as Vincent reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a small jewel case. He flicked the box open to reveal a golden ring filigreed with Celtic knots and adorned with a large diamond surrounded by a rainbow of other jewels. Lydia’s heart lodged in her throat even as unmitigated happiness warmed her body. “When?” The word escaped aloud before she was aware. “Now.” From another pocket in his waistcoat, Vincent withdrew a small sheaf of papers. “I have with me a marriage contract and a special license. I’ve also managed to procure a parson at this late hour.” Everyone’s gazes flew to the stranger, whose identity was now revealed. The parson yawned as if in emphasis of the inconvenience. All eyes shifted to Lydia, awaiting her reply. Her knees quaked beneath her gown, threatening to give out and topple her. “Please, Lydia,” he said achingly. “I cannot bear another night of you not being mine.” “Yes.

Taking her hands in his, he sank down to kneel before her. “I know we already are engaged, but I never went about it properly. Lydia Price, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?” Gasps permeated the room as Vincent reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a small jewel case. He flicked the box open to reveal a golden ring filigreed with Celtic knots and adorned with a large diamond surrounded by a rainbow of other jewels. Lydia’s heart lodged in her throat even as unmitigated happiness warmed her body. “When?” The word escaped aloud before she was aware. “Now.” From another pocket in his waistcoat, Vincent withdrew a small sheaf of papers. “I have with me a marriage contract and a special license. I’ve also managed to procure a parson at this late hour.” Everyone’s gazes flew to the stranger, whose identity was now revealed. The parson yawned as if in emphasis of the inconvenience. All eyes shifted to Lydia, awaiting her reply. Her knees quaked beneath her gown, threatening to give out and topple her. “Please, Lydia,” he said achingly. “I cannot bear another night of you not being mine.” “Yes.” The word escaped her lips past the joy swelling within. As if afraid she’d change her mind, Vincent quickly slipped the elaborate ring on her third finger and rose to his feet, retaining his grip on her hand. “You’ve made me the happiest of men,” he replied.

Never meant to be more than a B picture entertainment produced on the Universal International backlot and at the Iverson Ranch (a five-hundred-acre family property often used for location shoots), it is one of those unexpected surprises that make you want to know about everyone who had a part in creating such a diverting picture. The film has no single star, but rather an ensemble of superb actors: Vincent Price (Tracy Holland), hamming up it as a ham actor, and Eve Arden (Lily Martin) playing an aging and acerbic stage star.

The price paid for this flexibility is the difficulty of analyzing permissions in ABAC—at any given time, which resources can a given user access, and the converse—for each resource, what users have access? These questions are critical in estimating the risk that some resources will be improperly accessed. One of the complaints with current ABAC implementations is that an overnight run may be needed to determine user–permission links. Worse, in systems where attribute values change rapidly, it may take longer to analyze permissions than it does for a large set of attributes to change their values. As a result, administrators may not be able to determine who has access to what resources at a given moment.

His purchase of the Vincent [First Folio] signaled his breakthrough as a great collector. He had learned the price of hesitation and quibbling. He had overcome the psychological hurdle that all beginning collectors confront: spending big money. Some collectors do not obtain their finest pieces until the summit of their careers. Folger achieved many of his greatest triumphs at the dawn of his quest. This was his seventh First Folio (W 59, F 1). Some collectors lose great objects because they take too long to hit their stride. They lack the confidence to recognize opportunities or the will to act decisively, even when they could afford the piece. They posses the financial resources but not the will to deploy them. Great opportunities come too early in their careers and they do not act. They fail to realize that falling stars are rare, that planets rarely align. Henry learned these lessons early in the game. 140 [Note: First offered at £5,000, Folger's quibbling led the owner to withdraw the Folio. We offered later for £10,000, Folger bought it immediately.]

His purchase of the Vincent [First Folio] signaled his breakthrough as a great collector. He had learned the price of hesitation and quibbling. He had overcome the psychological hurdle that all beginning collectors confront: spending big money. Some collectors do not obtain their finest pieces until the summit of their careers. Folger achieved many of his greatest triumphs at the dawn of his quest. This was his seventh First Folio (W 59, F 1). Some collectors lose great objects because they take too long to hit their stride. They lack the confidence to recognize opportunities or the will to act decisively, even when they could afford the piece. They possess the financial resources but not the will to deploy them. Great opportunities come too early in their careers and they do not act. They fail to realize that falling stars are rare, that planets rarely align. Henry learned these lessons early in the game. 140 [Note: First offered at £5,000, Folger's quibbling led the owner to withdraw the Folio. When offered later for £10,000, Folger bought it immediately.]

The wedding that afternoon of Giselle Crumley and Myrtle Sansox would be Nelie’s last chance to win the affections of Lance Boulder, for tomorrow Lance would be thousands of miles away fighting a war. At times Nelie thought Lance’s military duties were just an excuse to delay their marriage. It seemed odd that a war would break out every time she mentioned marriage and the men wouldn’t know what to eat unless Lance was there. - Love in the Time of Rising Gas Prices

The chilling atmosphere of the secluded old mansion on the mountaintop was enough to give anyone the creeps. Given the choice, Nelie would rather live in a trailer park or a tree trunk but, alas, living in the old mansion had been her childhood dream. She had other dreams but those were about naked men and winning the lottery and finding a word that rhymed with eggshell. from Love in the Time of Rising Gas Prices

She knew it was a flimsy, paper-thin excuse, as brittle as his promises to watch his diet or remain faithful. Love in the Time of Rising Gas Prices

The desk lamp was the only light in the room. The vampire had requested the overheads be turned out. His name was Sabin, and he stood against the far wall, huddling in the dark. He was covered head to foot in a black, hooded cape. He looked like something out of an old Vincent Price movie. I’d never seen a real vampire dress like that. The

These men were giants of their era and would remain legendary figures in England for generations to come. George Selwyn was one. Renowned as a wit and celebrated as a macabre connoisseur of corpses, criminals, and executions, he was something like a combination of Truman Capote and Vincent Price.

It is highly un-African to casually puke out obituary announcement to a close relative except the announcer is pricing strangulation or has bought a second coffin for the recipient or himself. It is much better to tactfully preface the issue with preambles and have others present whose presence will prevent stories that touch the heart.

One well-known album from the late sixties was even narrated by Vincent Price.

People and corporations have always reacted poorly to deflation and dragged their feet lowering prices. No corporation wanted to lower its prices before its providers did.

Vincent winces like he’s expecting the worst, but then Jabari steps aside, presenting me with a sweep of his arm like he’s one of the showgirls on The Price Is Right and I’m a brand-new Jet Ski that some poor bastard is going to have to pay exorbitant taxes on.

Tuesday didn’t hear it. When the knocking started, she’d moved on from the math—51 envelopes times $13,000 equaled $663,000, over half a mil free-floating around the city—to more general research, into Edgar Allan Poe, the other Vincent Price, and for a while she’d gotten sucked into the long and storied history of playing cards— Knock. Someone was knocking on her door. She shook her head. Who the hell would be knocking? It was barely five. She stood up, stretched, rolled her neck on her shoulders. Had someone buzzed a FedEx guy in? But she hadn’t—she didn’t think she’d ordered anything online. If she had, and had forgotten, she was going to have to send it back. This was not the time for impulse internet spending. She opened her door and Death was on the other side. “Ohmygod,” she said, and ducked, coffee-juiced, back behind the door. “You like?

The House of Bonko stands tall behind him, a little distance away, looking like someone rammed a carnival train car into the sort of place a Vincent Price character would scheme to murder his wife in.

There was nothing churchy about this place. Where was the pulpit, the cross, the other religious accoutrements? This was nothing but a big empty room that didn’t even have chairs. When he thought of a revival, he thought of a brightly lighted place with seats for everybody, probably a PA system for the preacher so people in the back could hear him. When he looked at this place, he thought of a hoedown—except for the candelabra, which reminded him of a medieval castle, something from a Vincent Price movie. He wished he hadn’t thought about Vincent Price.

This time, I asked a mortal Israeli girl what sort of things she liked to eat. She led me to a something called a falafel stand.” Phil shrugged and his voice lilted in a question at the end. “Are you saying I’m looking at a solid brick of falafel?” Roland raised a doubtful eyebrow at Vincent’s bulging bag. “Oh, no,” Vincent said. “The Outcasts also purchased hummus, pita, pickles, a container of something called tabbouleh, cucumber salad, and fresh pomegranate juice. Are you hungry, Lucinda Price?” It was an absurd amount of delicious food. Somehow it felt wrong to eat on the altars, so they spread out a smorgasbord on the floor and everyone-Outcast, angel, mortal-tucked in. The mood was somber, but the food was filling and hot and exactly what all of them seemed to need. Luce showed Olianna and Vincent how to make a falafel sandwich; Cam even asked Phil to pass him the hummus. At some point, Arriane flew out the window to find Luce some new clothes. She returned with a faded pair of jeans, a white V-neck T-shirt, and a cool Israeli army flak jacket with a patch depicting an orange-and-yellow flame. “Had to kiss a soldier for this,” she said.

The Buffalo Evening News was established in 1880, and for years was operated by a single family, the Butlers. After Kate Robinson Butler died in 1974, the establishment-oriented Republican-leaning newspaper was put up for sale by her estate. It wasn't until the first Saturday after New Year's Day, 1977, that Buffett and Munger arrived in Weston, Connecticut, to talk to Vincent Manno, a newspaper broker who was handling the deal. Buffett first offered $30 million for the paper, but his price was refused. He then raised the bid to $32 million. The offer was high, considering that the Evening News had earned only $1.7 million pretax in 1976. However, the offer again was rejected. Buffett and Munger excused themselves to confer. They returned with a price written on a sheet of yellow legal paper. The amount, $32.5 million, was accepted. It was a daring move, since the acquisition price represented nearly 25 percent of the net worth of Berkshire Hathaway at that time.