Susanna Clarke Quotes

Sometimes I see me dead in the rain.

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

To me, death is dark, pain, grief.

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore! Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.

When you attend a funeral, It is sad to think that sooner o' Later those you love will do the same for you. And you may have thought it tragic, Not to mention other adjec- Tives, to think of all the weeping they will do. (But don't you worry.

Desiring always to be in mourning, he clothed himself with night.

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

If a man will observe as he walks the streets, I believe he will find the merriest countenances in mourning coaches.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" — Merely this, and nothing more

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.

Death always leaves one singer to mourn.

All of my best friends are dead people. Someday I've got to figure out how that happened.

Rafael, the Rat King, stared at the carnage with black-button eyes. "She is dead." "Ding dong, the witch is dead.

I remember burying a girl fourteen years of age who had died with a ruptured appendix... I buried a good many people that I knew, some of whom I loved.

The ocean moans over dead men's bones.

It is like visiting one's funeral, like visiting loss in its purest and most monumental form, this wild darkness, which is not only unknown but which one cannot enter as oneself.

And all the winds go sighing, for sweet things dying.

Go now, verses, on your light feet, you have not trodden hard on the old earth where the graves laugh when they see their guests, the one corpse stacked on top of the other. Go now and stagger to her whom I do not know.

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

Widow. The word consumes itself.

It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.

My sister died in Brooklyn.

I wear a lot of black. Like my heart.