#grave

I was darkly convinced that at age 52 I would kill myself because my mother committed suicide at that age. I was fantasizing that she was waiting for me on the other side of the grave. ↗

— Spalding Gray

#because #committed #convinced #grave #i

While we ourselves are the living graves of murdered animals, how can we expect any ideal living conditions on this earth? ↗

— George Bernard Shaw

#conditions #earth #expect #graves #how

To say what you feel is to dig your own grave. ↗

— Sinead O'Connor

#feel #grave #own #say #you

Then trust me there's nothing like drinking, So pleasant on this side of the grave: It keeps the unhappy from thinking, And makes e'en the valiant more brave. ↗

— Charles Dibdin

#drinking #grave #keeps #like #makes

If Roosevelt were alive today, he'd turn over in his grave. ↗

— Samuel Goldwyn

#grave #his #over #roosevelt #today

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there. ↗

— Edward Young

#angels #arm #confine #grave #legions

They stand beside a grave. Hermann sprinkles upon it a powder, which falls in sparkles of light from his fingers. The earth begins to heave; and presently, as a volcano casts up its ashes, the grave empties itself. Slowly and slowly, like the rippling waves of a becalmed ocean, it rises to the surface, divides, and falls in crumbling heaps on either side. Then there ascends the venerable figure of an aged man, clothed in robes of purple and scarlet, the ensigns of senatorial dignity. At the same moment, the spectre arm, by wondrous motion of its own, tears itself aloft, and becomes a dimly gleaming torch; each livid finger sending forth pale red dusky flames, which fling a horrid glare upon the cadaverous features of the phantom. ("The Forsaken Of God") ↗

— William Mudford

#black-magick #grave #hand-of-glory #incantation #magick

I shook with cold and fear, without being able to answer. After a lapse of some moments, I was again called. I made an effort to speak, and then felt the bandage which wrapped me from head to foot. It was my shroud. At last, I managed feebly to articulate, 'Who calls?' 'Tis I' said a voice. 'Who art thou?' 'I! I! I!' was the answer; and the voice grew weaker, as if it was lost in the distance; or as if it was but the icy rustle of the trees. A third time my name sounded on my ears; but now it seemed to run from tree to tree, as if it whistled in each dead branch; so that the entire cemetery repeated it with a dull sound. Then I heard a noise of wings, as if my name, pronounced in the silence, had suddenly awakened a troop of nightbirds. My hands, as if by some mysterious power, sought my face. In silence I undid the shroud which bound me, and tried to see. It seemed as if I had awakened from a long sleep. I was cold. I then recalled the dread fear which oppressed me, and the mournful images by which I was surrounded. The trees had no longer any leaves upon them, and seemed to stretch forth their bare branches like huge spectres! A single ray of moonlight which shone forth, showed me a long row of tombs, forming an horizon around me, and seeming like the steps which might lead to Heaven. All the vague voices of the night, which seemed to preside at my awakening, were full of terror. ("The Dead Man's Story") ↗

— James Hain Friswell

#graveyard #horror #terror #art

These are the kinds of things a guy thinks about when he visits his own grave. ↗

— Kami Garcia

#think #visit #beauty

The door burst open. Murphy came through it, her eyes living flames of azure blue, her hair a golden coronet around her. She held a blazing sword in her hand and she shone so bright and beautiful and terrifying in her anger that it was hard to see. The Sight, I realized, dimly. I was seeing her for who she was. ↗

— Jim Butcher

#anger