Blood Canticle

If I haven't put that on a T-shirt, I'm going to. Actually, I really don't want to write anything that can't be put on a T-shirt. Actually I'd like to write only on T-shirts. Actually, I'd like to write whole novels on T-shirts. So you guys could say, 'I'm wearing chapter 8 of Lestat's new book, that's my favorite; oh I see you're wearing chapter 6-

You make me miserable. You really do, I want you to know that. Much as I love you, much as I need you, much as I can't exist without you, you make me miserable.

As we move on year by year in this life, we learn that telling doesn't necessarily purge; telling something is merely a reliving, and it's a torment.

I'd drink your blood if I could and hook you into every memory inside me, every heartbreak, frame of reference, temporary triumph, petty defeat, mystic moment of surrender.

It struck me, sharp and hard, that I had been given so many chances to save my soul that my entire life had been constructed around these chances! That was my nature - going from temptation to temptation, not to sin, but to be redeemed.

You're my insatiable blood thief and soul smasher.

I WANT to be a saint. I want to save souls by the millions. I want to do good far and wide. I want to fight evil! I want my life-sized statue in every church. I'm talking six feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes-. Wait a second. Do you know who I am?

He was a seer of visions and a dreamer of dreams, unconsciously charming and unfailingly kind.

Kindly go to Hell! (Lestat to Oncle Julien's ghost)

Go ahead, throw this book away. Spit on me. Revile me. I dare you. Cast me out of your intellectual orbit. Throw me out of your backpack. Pitch me in the airport trash bin. Leave me on a bench in Central Park! What do I care? No. I don't want you to do all that. Don't do that. DON'T DO IT!

Who knows about another's love? The more you love the more you know the burnt out loss of love, the more you heed the silence of unknowing in the face of another's spiritual bondage.

Love. Who knows about another’s love? The more you love the more you know the burnt out loss of love, the more you heed the silence of unknowing in the face of another’s spiritual bondage.

Does anybody look better in rags than me?

The big problem is not How to explain the existence of evil in this world. It's How to explain the existence of good.

Beijei suas lágrimas. Quem dera que eu fosse mesmo santo. Quem dera eu fosse o padre que estava parado junto do carro à sua espera, fingindo não ver que nos beijávamos. O que era o beijo? O beijo mortal? Beijei sua boca novamente. Um amor mortal e o tempo todo o desejo irresistível da ligação do sangue, não de sua morte, não, Meu Deus, não, apenas a ligação do sangue, o conhecimento.