Because if a woman’s heart was free a man might have hope.
BRAM STOKERAbove the care of Nature and of State, Suspended in the noon of Night we wait, All slumber nursing, to make sweet and pure, While secret Nature, weaving works the cure. We are the handmaids of the hollow night,
More Bram Stoker Quotes
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We are able to learn from a failure, but perhaps not much from a success!
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Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer–both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams.
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I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing.
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He may not enter anywhere at the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come, though afterwards he can come as he please.
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The inscrutable laws of sex have so arranged that even a timid woman is not afraid of a fierce and haughty man.
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The Stars are a long way off, and their words get somewhat dulled in the message.
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Though sympathy alone can’t alter facts, it can help to make them more bearable.
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It is ever thus that the things which we do wrong – although they may seem little at the time, and though from the hardness of our hearts we pass them lightly by – come back to us with bitterness.
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We see radiating many long arms with innumerable tentaculae, and in the centre rises a gigantic head with a comprehensive brain and keen eyes to look on every side and ears sensitive to hear–and a voracious mouth to swallow.
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There are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely.
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Faith … that faculty which enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue.
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I have been so long master that I would be master still, or at least that none other should be master of me.
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For now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering accurately must help sooth me.
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My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side.
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Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall — all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him.
BRAM STOKER