Clive Barker Quotes

Shadwell threw down his gun, and—though he had no taste for abattoirs—forced himself to survey the carnage before him. It was, he knew, the responsibility of one aspiring to godhood never to look away. Willful ignorance was the last refuge of humanity, and that was a condition he would soon have transcended.
And, when he studied the scene, it wasn’t so unbearable. He could look at the tumble of corpses and see them for the empty sacks they were.

Shadwell?" said Suzanna.
"Their beloved Prophet," came the reply. "Beneath that show of holiness I lent him there beats a salesman's heart."
So Shadwell was the Prophet. What a perfect irony, that the seller of encyclopedias should end up peddling hope.
"It was his idea," said the Incantatrix, "to give them a Messiah. Now they've got a righteous crusade, as Hobart calls it. They're going to claim their promised land. And destroy it in the process."
"They won't fall for this."
"They already have, sister. Holy wars are easier to start than rumors among your Kind or mine. They believe every sacred word he tells them, as though their lives depended upon it. Which in a sense they do. They've been conspired against and cheated—and they're ready to tear the Fugue apart to get their hands on those responsible. Isn't that perfect? The Fugue'll die at the very hands of those who've come to save it."
"And that's what Shadwell wants?"
"He's a man: he wants adoration."She gazed over Suzanna's shoulder toward the unweaving, and the Salesman, still in its midst. "And that's what he's got. So he's happy.

Perhaps there was a natural process at work here; a means by which the mind dealt with experiences that contradicted a lifetime’s prejudices about the nature of reality. People simple forgot.

It was absurd and frustrating, to feel so much and know so little.

...Take this all of you and eat it. This is my body which will be given up for you...
Old words; old rituals. But they still made sound commercial sense.
Talk of Power and Might would always attract an audience. Lords never went out of fashion.

Of course, there was Hobart. The Inspector was probably insane, but that was all to the good. And he had one particular aspiration which Shadwell knew he might one day need to turn to his own ends. That was, to lead—as Hobart put it—a righteous crusade.

And us?" said the Hag. "What happens to us then? Will we be free?
That's what we agreed."
"We can go into extinction?"
"If that's what you want."
"More than anything," said the Hag. "More than anything."
"There are worse things than existence," said Immacolata.
"Oh?" the Hag replied. "Can you name one?"
Immacolata thought for a short while.
"No," she conceded, with a soft sigh of distress. "You may be right, sister.

True joy is a profound remembering; and true grief the same.

Among their members were some of the wealthiest individuals in the world; between them, fortunes sufficient to trade in nations. None of the seven had a name that would have meant anything to the hoi polloi—they were, like the truly mighty, anonymously great.

Believe nothing," Apolline advised. "This woman wouldn't know the truth if it fucked her.

Lilia sighed. “Why me?” she said, still shaking. “Why should I have to tell it?”
“Because you’re the best liar,” Jerichau replied with a tight smile. “You can make it true.”

Nothing ever begins.
There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs.
The threads can always be traced back to some earlier tale, and to the tales that preceded that: though as the narrator’s voice recedes the connections will seem to grow more tenuous, for each age will want the tale told as if it were of its own making.
Thus the pagan will be sanctified, the tragic become laughable; great lovers will stoop to sentiment, and demons dwindle to clockwork toys.
Nothing is fixed. In and out the shuttle goes, fact and fiction, mind and matter woven into patterns that may have only this in common: that hidden amongst them is a filigree which will with time become a world.
It must be arbitrary then, the place at which we chose to embark.
Somewhere between a past half forgotten and a future as yet only glimpsed.

Life is short,
and pleasures few,
and holed the ship,
and drowned the crew,
But O! But O!
How very blue
the sea is!

Here is a list of fearful things:
The jaws of sharks, a vulture's wings,
The rabid bite of the dog's of war,
The voice of one who went before.
But most of all the mirror's gaze,
which counts us out our numbered days.

We are all our own graveyards I believe; we squat amongst the tombs of the people we were. If we're healthy, every day is a celebration, a Day of the Dead, in which we give thanks for the lives that we lived; and if we are neurotic we brood and mourn and wish that the past was still present.