Blood Quotes

Do not fall in love with people like me.
I will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth.
I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave you will finally understand, why storms are named after people.

Stop fighting me!" he said, trying to pull on the arm he held.
He was in a precarious position himself, straddling the rail as he tried to lean over far enough to get me and actually hold onto me.
Let go of me! I yelled back.
But he was too strong and managed to haul most of me over the rail, enough so that I wasn’t in total danger of falling again.
See, here’s the thing. In that moment before I let go, I really had been contemplating my death. I’d come to terms with it and accepted it. I also, however, had known Dimitri might do something exactly like this. He was just that fast and that good. That was why I was holding my stake in the hand that was dangling free.
I looked him in the eye. "I will always love you."
Then I plunged the stake into his chest.
It wasn’t as precise a blow as I would have liked, not with the skilled way he was dodging. I struggled to get the stake in deep enough to his heart, unsure if I could do it from this angle. Then, his struggles stopped. His eyes stared at me, stunned, and his lips parted, almost into a smile, albeit a grisly and pained one.
"That’s what I was supposed to say. . . he gasped out.
Those were his last words.

Jace?"
"Yeah?"
"How did you know I had Shadowhunter blood? Was there some way you could tell?"
The elevator arrived with a final groan. Jace unlatched the gate and slid it open. The inside reminded Clary of a birdcage, all black metal and decorative bits of gilt. "I guessed," he said, latching the door behind them. "It seemed like the most likely explanation."
"You guessed? You must have been pretty sure, considering you could have killed me."
He pressed a button in the wall, and the elevator lurched into action with a vibrating groan that she felt all through the bones in her feet. "I was ninety percent sure."
"I see," Clary said.
There must have been something in her voice, because he turned to look at her. Her hand cracked across his face, a slap that rocked him back on his heels. He put a hand to his cheek, more in surprise than pain. "What the hell was that for?"
The other ten percent," she said, and they rode the rest of the way down to the street in silence.

Everybody is a book of blood; wherever we're opened, we're red.

I didn't know that idiocy caused people to just start spontaneously bleeding from the nose.

Fresh is better. But you've never drunk fresh blood. Have you?"
Simon raised his eyebrow in response.
"Well, aside from mine of course," Jace said. "And I'm pretty sure my blood is fan-tastic.

Crap, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"I'm thinking we have about fifteen vampires and no blood," Claire said. "Is that it?"
"No, I was thinking we're out of chips. Of course that's what I was thinking.

So--what's it like, being a vampire?"
"Aline!" Isabelle looked appalled. "You can't just go around asking people what's it like to be a vampire!"
"I don't see why," Aline said. "He hasn't been a vampire that long, has he? So he must still remember what it was like being a person." She turned back to Simon. "Does blood taste like blood to you? Or does it taste like something else now, like orange juice or something? Because I would think the taste of blood would-"
"It tastes like chicken," Simon said, just to shut her up.
"Really?" Aline looked astonished.
"He's making fun of you, Aline," said Sebastain

You do realize this makes your wings even more unique."
"Are you saying you shot me as a cosmetic procedure?

And second, keep in mind that you are a weapon. In theory, when you're done with training, you should be able to kick a hole in a wall or knock out a moose with a single punch."
"I would never hit a moose," said Clary. "They're endangered.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

The first morning Simon had been at Amatis's house, a grinning lycanthrope had showed up on the doorstep with a live cat for him.
"Blood," he'd said, in a heavily accented voice. "For you. Fresh!"
Simon had thanked the werewolf, waited from him to leave, and let the cat go, his expression faintly green.
"We'll you're going to have to get your blood from
somewhere
," said Luke, looking amused.
"I have a pet cat," Simon replied. "There's no way.

All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be worshipped. Through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.

Blood is really warm,
it's like drinking hot chocolate
but with more screaming.

Option 1: Attempt to back out.
Probable result: Death after painful torture.
Option 2: Do the job and hope.
Probable result: Death but probably no torture (good)

The road to Manderley lay ahead. There was no moon. The sky above our heads was inky black. But the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.

The ink of the scholar is more holy than the blood of the martyr.

It wasn’t easy looking dignified wearing a bed sheet and a purple cape.

Because no one has more thirst for earth, for blood, and for ferocious sexuality than the creatures who inhabit cold mirrors

I will bathe in your warmth ma petite. Roll you around me until my heart beats only for you. My breath will grow warm from your kiss.

I am not shy about admitting my modest talents. For example, I am happy to admit that I am better than average at clever remarks, and I also have a flair for getting people to like me. But to be perfectly fair to myself, I am ever-ready to confess my shortcomings, too, and a quick round of soul-searching forced me to admit that I had never been any good at all at breathing water. As I hung there from the seat belt, dazed and watching the water pour in and swirl around my head, this began to seem like a very large character flaw.

You know what we call pedestrians in Morganville? Mobile bloodbanks.

she glanced down and saw that a glove of blood covered her lower arm from the elbow to the wrist. The arm
was throbbing, stiff, and painful.
"Is this when you start tearing strips off your T-shirt to bind up my wound?" she joked.
She hated the sight of blood, especially her own.
"If you wanted me to rip my clothes off, you should have just asked." He dug into his pocket and brought out
his stele. "It would have been a lot less painful.

The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.
--from "Kindness", written 1 February 1963

At least Kyle wasn't home. That would be a hard one to explain to his new roomate. Nobody liked a guy who kept blood in the fridge.

Blood began to flow, at first cautiously, as if embarrassed by its appearance; a few thin red lines exploring the gravitational trajectory of its new terrain. Now it flowed faster, steadily staining her pale flesh a horrific red.

I figured even the most jaded and cynical inhabitant might report a bloody girl in a party dress carrying a severed head by its hair.

The stuff of nightmare is their plain bread. They butter it with pain. They set their clocks by deathwatch beetles, and thrive the centuries. They were the men with the leather-ribbon whips who sweated up the Pyramids seasoning it with other people's salt and other people's cracked hearts. They coursed Europe on the White Horses of the Plague. They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half-price in the grand March sale. Some must have been lazing clowns, foot props for emperors, princes, and epileptic popes. Then out on the road, Gypsies in time, their populations grew as the world grew, spread, and there was more delicious variety of pain to thrive on. The train put wheels under them and here they run down the log road out of the Gothic and baroque; look at their wagons and coaches, the carving like medieval shrines, all of it stuff once drawn by horses, mules, or, maybe, men.

Ugh," he said after a few swallows. "Dead blood."
Jace's eyebrows went up. " Isn't all blood dead?"
"The longer the animal whose blood I'm drinking has been dead, the worse the blood tastes," Simon explained. "Fresh is better."
"But you've never drunk fresh blood. Have you?"
Simon raised his own eyebrows in response.
"Well, aside from mine, of course," Jace said. "And I'm sure my blood is fan-tastic.

A tragedy need not have blood and death; it's enough that it all be filled with that majestic sadness that is the pleasure of tragedy.

I learned to play the instruments of war," he said, "and paint in blood.

Even more blood welled up and spilled down his arm, splattering onto the ground.
Camille’s carpet, Magnus protested.
It’s blood, said Will. She ought to be thrilled.

In a world gushing blood day and night, you never stop mopping up pain.

What is happening to me happens to all fruits that grow ripe.
It is the honey in my veins that makes my blood thicker, and my soul quieter.

I want no blood from you--not until we're both sweaty and naked and you're screaming my name.

Now, your Honor, I have spoken about the [Civil] war. I believed in it. I don’t know whether I was crazy or not. Sometimes I think perhaps I was. I approved of it; I joined in the general cry of madness and despair. I urged men to fight. I was safe because I was too old to go. I was like the rest. What did they do? Right or wrong, justifiable or unjustifiable -- which I need not discuss today -- it changed the world. For four long years the civilized world was engaged in killing men. Christian against Christian, barbarian uniting with Christians to kill Christians; anything to kill. It was taught in every school, aye in the Sunday schools. The little children played at war. The toddling children on the street. Do you suppose this world has ever been the same since? How long, your Honor, will it take for the world to get back the humane emotions that were slowly growing before the war?
How long will it take the calloused hearts of men before the scars of hatred and cruelty shall be removed
?
We read of killing one hundred thousand men in a day. We read about it and we rejoiced in it -- if it was the other fellows who were killed. We were fed on flesh and drank blood. Even down to the prattling babe. I need not tell you how many upright, honorable young boys have come into this court charged with murder, some saved and some sent to their death, boys who fought in this war and learned to place a cheap value on human life. You know it and I know it. These boys were brought up in it. The tales of death were in their homes, their playgrounds, their schools; they were in the newspapers that they read; it was a part of the common frenzy -- what was a life? It was nothing. It was the least sacred thing in existence and these boys were trained to this cruelty.

Use your blood to paint. Keep painting until you faint. Keep painting until you die.

Keith was just bringing the glass to his lips when Adrian said, "Mmm. O positive, my favorite."
Keith sprayed out the wine he'd just drunk and promptly started coughing. I was relieved that none got on me. jill burst into giggles, and Clarence stared at his glass wonderingly.
"Is it? I thought it was a cabernet sauvignon."
"So it is," said Adrian, straight-faced. "My mistake.

Even a foolish old woman like me knows that lazy people don't think for themselves; they only think about themselves.

Can I dwell on what I scarce remember? I held a castle on the Marches once, and there was a woman I was pledged to marry, but I could not find that castle today, nor tell you the color of that woman's hair. Who knighted me, old friend? What were my favorite foods? It all fades. Sometimes I think I was born on the bloody grass in that grove of ash, with the taste of fire in my mouth and a hole in my chest. Are you my mother, Thoros?

I wanted to feel the blood running back into my veins, even at the cost of annihilation. I wanted to shake the stone and light out of my system. I wanted the dark fecundity of nature, the deep well of the womb, silence, or else the lapping of the black waters of death. I wanted to be that night which the remorseless eye illuminated, a night diapered with stars and trailing comets. To be of night so frighteningly silent, so utterly incomprehensible and eloquent at the same time. Never more to speak or to listen or to think.

Relatives share the same bloodline, but FAMILY shares your successes, pains, ambitions, celebrations, failures, values, love and so much more. I realize that many friends have become Family and some relatives just are not. (Analogy: Blood scatters everywhere, when Family runs together...When I thought I needed "Blood" to survive, I realized that what I really needed was "Family"!)

I'm looking for someone
to quench my thirst-for all eternity"
-Luna Maxwell

I was drawn to horses as if they were magnets. It was in my blood. I must have inherited from my grandfather a genetic proclivity toward the equine species. Perhaps there's a quirk in the DNA that makes horse people different from everyone else, that instantly divides humanity into those who love horses and the others, who simply don't know.

Immanuel, God with us-that He would leave the spiritual realm and be present in the flesh and blood in such an act of humility is a staggering notion. As it is, He willingly gave His blood, in the flesh, so that others might find life, for it is written: "He did not come by water only, but by blood," and "Without the shedding of blood there is no remission." Now blood is required to give new life to the dead.
I tell you, He did not give only a small amount to satisfy this requirement. He was beaten and crushed and pierced until that blood flowed like a river for the sake of love. It was for love, not religion, that He died.
There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Immanuel's veins. And those plunged beneath that watery grave to drink of His blood will never be the same.

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

The Bird of Hermes is my name, eating my wings to make me tame.

Every poem is a coat of arms. It must be deciphered. How much blood, how many tears in exchange for these axes, these muzzles, these unicorns, these torches, these towers, these martlets, these seedlings of stars and these fields of blue!

Love is like that. It's like a wildfire in my blood.

Amazing how being bathed in arterial blood can wash out any lingering romantic disappointments.