As yet we know nothing of what goes to create or evoke the active spark of life.
BRAM STOKERI have learned not to think little of any one’s belief, no matter how strange it may be. I have tried to keep an open mind, and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane.
More Bram Stoker Quotes
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Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us in different directions.
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And then away for home! Away to the quickest and nearest train! Away from this cursed land, where the devil and his children stil walk with earthly feet!
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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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The only beautiful thing in the world whose beauty lasts for ever is a pure, fair soul.
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It is wonderful what tricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.
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There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration.
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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.
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I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit, I suppose it is some taste of the original apple that remains still in our mouths.
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But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one. Men know him not, and to know not is to care not for.
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There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration.
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It is only when a man feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand their true import.
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The Dead travel fast.
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The Stars are a long way off, and their words get somewhat dulled in the message.
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Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the sky.
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I suppose a cry does us all good at times-clears the air as other rain does.
BRAM STOKER