102 Quotes by Poppy Z. Brite

I press my hands against my chest, wishing I could somehow be even closer to him. I hate skin; I hate bones and bodies. I want to curl up inside of him and be carried there forever.

I just want to know how you’re made,” Trevor breathed in his ear. “I love you so much, Zach. I want to climb inside you. I want to taste your brain. I want to feel your heart beating in my hands.

Yielding flesh in his hands, hot with fear, sticky with sweat and blood and already smelling of heaven. Helpless bones his to crack, helpless skin his to rip open, sweet red river his to drink from. He had to do it. He had to know. With his eyes and his hands, with all his body, he had to see.

They discovered that even in the face of pain that seems unbearable, even in the face of pain that wrings the last drop of blood out of your heart and leaves its scrimshaw tracery on the inside of your skull, life goes on. And pain grows dull, and begins to fade.

I like visiting peoples homes on Saint Josephs Day, when people set up altars, serve food as a tribute to the saint, and invite the public – I enjoy that much more than Mardi Gras.

Young writers shouldn’t be afraid of striving to emulate their favorites. It’s a good way to learn, as long as you move on from it and don’t publish too many of the results.

In the Netherlands I read the first chapter of Exquisite Corpse to an audience that laughed in all the places I thought were funny – an experience I’ve never had in America!

Death doesn’t hurt,” said one of the twins, and a light came into his silver eyes. “Death is dark, death is sweet.” The other twin took up the litany. “Death is all that lasts forever. Death is eternal beauty.” “Death is a lover with a thousand tongues – ” “A thousand insect caresses – ” “Death is easy.

No”, said a voice from the dark doorway. A weary voice, a voice for speaking long after midnight, a voice to be used when all paths are blocked, when castles have fallen to ruins, when morning will not come again.