99+ Glen Duncan Quotes on I, The Last Werewolf and I - Quotes.pub

Here you will find all the famous Glen Duncan quotes. There are more than 99+ quotes in our Glen Duncan quotes collection. We have collected all of them and made stunning Glen Duncan wallpapers & posters out of those quotes. You can use this wallpapers & posters on mobile, desktop, print and frame them or share them on the various social media platforms. You can download the quotes images in various different sizes for free. In the below list you can find quotes in various categories like I, The Last Werewolf and I

Human love didn’t eradicate God, but it put Him into His proper distant second place.

Show us the world’s not the way we thought it was and part of us rejoices.

He didn’t protest much. Evidently he had a penchant for surrender.

The only way to be sure of never losing the ones you love. The Dahmer Method. Extreme, but effective.

If Im going to invest the time in a novel, I want something more than the entertainment you get out of most genre fiction.

I hated the words. Each one was like a big live insect in my mouth.

This would be my torture: all that didn’t bear thinking about would devote itself to forcing me to bear thinking about it.

But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers; grace only exists to be fallen from.

With adolescent egotism and a lot of money one can pretty much rule the world.

Moll is immoral, shallow, hypocritical, heartless, a bad woman: yet Moll is marvellous.

No amount of violence you’ve done to others prepares you for violence done to yourself.

The road to Hell, you say, is paved with good intentions. Charming. But actually it’s paved with intriguing questions.

She’d been an actress, an artist’s model, once or twice a kept woman, through all a voracious reader.

Reading Quotes

That’s the problem with being alive,” she says, staring at the floor. “You’ve got to keep thinking of what to do.

You save yourself. That’s all. You save yourself, or you’re damned.

All motivation derives from the primary fact of mortality. Take mortality away and motivation loses its... motivation.

Your unavowed atrocities kill you from the inside out. What is the compulsion to tell the truth if not a moral compulsion? Jacqueline Delon had asked. She was wrong. It’s a survival necessity. You can’t live if you can’t accept what you are, and you can’t accept what you are if you can’t say what you do. The power of naming, as old as Adam.

Poets suffer occasional delusions of angelhood and find themselves condemned to express it in the bric-a-brac tongues of the human world. Lots of them go mad.

Reading a book is a dangerous thing, Justine. A book can make you find room in yourself for something you never thought you’d understand. Or worse, something you never wanted to understand.

I’m too conceited for therapy.

You love life because life’s all there is.

We go to the past to lay the blame – since the past can’t argue. We go to our past selves to account for our present miseries.

I don’t know where the universe came from or what happens to creatures when they die. I don’t know if the whole thing’s an unravelling accident or an inscrutable design. I don’t know how one should live – but I know that one should live, if one can possibly bear it.

I didn’t cry. Real things don’t make me cry. Only false or sentimental things can do that. In this respect I’m like most civilised humans.

I’m an American. We’re a people diseased with progress.

The only animal from which humans have nothing to learn, in fact, is the sheep. Humans have already learned everything the sheep’s got to teach.

Every now and then life sold you an illusion of design. A coincidence, a parallel, a sledgehammer symbol. The goods were always faulty. You forked over the cash only to discover they’d fallen apart by the time you got home. But life kept at it. Life couldn’t help it. Life was a compulsive salesman.

Every present anger derives from past weakness.

Life is nothing but a statement of what happens to be.

One knows one’s madnesses, by and large. By and large the knowledge is vacuous. The notion of naming the beast to conquer it is the idiot optimism of psychotherapy.

My parents believe in the happy endings to the stories of their children.

Bliss defies description, obviously, since it annihilates you, since you’re not there to experience it. You get the lead-up and the come-down, never the zenith.

Life compulsively dangled the possibility of life. Life, the dramatist on speed. Life, that couldn’t stop with its foreshadows and ironies and symbols and clues, its wretched jokes and false endings and twists. Life with its hopeless addiction to plot.

One day the ordinariness will be terminally punctuated by the extraordinary full stop of death.

He was quiet, cooperative. He’d made his decision. He knew his soul would have to deal with the consequences, but for now, God had lost. It was a relief to him. It always is, to find the edge of yourself. To know the exact limit of your strength. It’s a relief because not knowing it is an exhausting full-time job.

Life, like the boring drunk at the office party, keeps seeking you out, leaning on you, killing you with pointless yarns and laughing bad-breathed in your face at its own unfunny jokes.

The rain’s been racing earthwards as if with some religious or political fanaticism. The clouds have the look of dark internal bleeding. Surely you lot look up from Cosmo while this sort of thing’s going on? Surely you take a Playstation break?

Pain is beyond reason, an obliterating giant stupidity to which all your history of jokes and nuance and ideas and caresses is nothing, simply nothing.

Just because life’s meaningless doesn’t mean we can’t experience it meaningfully.

There’s always someone’s father, someone’s mother, someone’s wife, someone’s son. This is the problem with killing and eating people. One of the problems.

The message is clear: By all means become an abomination – but only while unhinged by grief or wrath.

Extraordinary what the body remembers. The bones loded with love, grief silting the arteries, fear the bowels’ recurring mould. Who would have thought mere flesh and blood could hold so much of psyche’s ghostly script?

Home pulls. It draws you back to tell you you don’t belong.

There is no God and that’s His only commandment.

Your ideal possession candidate’s a thirteen-year-old recently orphaned schizophrenic girl three days away from her period on her way to see the shrink with whom she’s romantically besotted.

Once you’ve stopped loving someone breaking his or her heart’s just an unpleasant chore you have to get behind you. My God, you really don’t love me anymore, do you? No matter your decency the victim’s incredulity’s potentially hilarious. You manage not to laugh.

When you’re a kid it’s people’s cruelty that makes you cry, then when you’re an adult it’s their kindness.

My mother once told me she thought hell would be nothing more than being given a glimpse of God – then having it taken away, forever.

Snow makes cities innocent again, reveals the frailty of the human gesture against the void.

That’s what happens when you keep a secret from someone you love: you start to hate them for allowing you to prove your own willingness to deceive them.

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