Zombies Quotes - Page 5

I thought if I loved you enough I could change you. I was so stupid.

He glanced at James before continuing. “If you're going to survive this, the first rule you need to learn is never count on anyone but yourself. Never. People make mistakes, and the zombies are fast. They don't need to sleep or eat anything but us. Don't leave your protection in the hands of someone else.

Zombies are familiar characters in philosophical thought experiments. They are like people in every way except they have no internal experience.... If there are enough zombies recruited into our world, I worry about the potential for a self-fulfilling prophecy. Maybe if people pretend they are not conscious or do not have free will - or that the cloud of online people is a person; if they pretend there is nothing special about the perspective of the individual - then perhaps we have the power to make it so. We might be able to collectively achieve antimagic. Humans are free. We can commmit suicide for the benefit of a Singularity. We can engineer our genes to better support an imaginary hive mind. We can make culture and journalism into second-rate activities and spend centuries remixing the detritus of the 1960s and other eras from before individual creativity went out of fashion. Or we can believe in ourselves. By chance, it might turn out we are real.

The abundance of small things, it'll bury you.

I'm not the one going for a biology degree. I'm just a philosophy major who eats people.

I came to the conclusion a while ago that there is nothing romantic or supernatural about loving someone: Love is the privilege of being responsible for another. It was, for a time, what kept me going: Each morning, for a little while, I got to feel the weight of the yoke on my back as I pulled the ancient cart of my species.

Alice is fictional. This isn't.

Don't discuss your relationship problems with friends. Your zombie problems are another story entirely.

Mindless violence against the undead?” said Zzzap. “Count me in.

My friend "M" says the irony of being a zombie is that everything is funny, but you can't smile, because your lips have rotted off.

Let me make sure I have this straight. The cavalry just now rode into town and it's a Czech Gypsy porn-star zombie killer. Have I got that right?

All myths have a basis in fact

My story ended where so many stories have ended since the Rising: with a man—in this case, my adoptive brother and best friend, Shaun—holding a gun to the base of my skull as the virus in my blood betrayed me, transforming me from a thinking human being into something better suited to a horror movie.

Pulling back, like a savage carnivore at its prey, it tore a large chunk of meat rendering his left arm useless...regardless he did not require it for long.

The man with the most guns survives the zombie apocalypse, but the man with the most books, locks the door and forgets it ever happened.

And then, anger gave way to pure and simple job satisfaction. I mean, when I looked at a dead zombie head on a spike, I thought, "Hey, I did that. Picasso would have been proud. Especially how I rearranged that eye

This is the part in the movie where that guy says, "Zombies? What zombies?" just before they eat his brains. I don't want to be that guy.

The final entity was the beast. The steel juggernaut that raked claws made of screams along the bones of their soul.All of the pain that Jango had endured as a child had never left his mind. That pain had created a sort of primordial ooze in his fractured mind that sloshed and bled until the beast was birthed from the suffering. The beast lived in a cage forged of willpower deep in the recesses of the mad matrix of his splintered mind. It rattled the cage and roared for release, but he was loath to ever set the beast loose…again.

The more I know about people, the more I love zombies.

I don't want to think about it, but I have to. Someone has to. I see the signs of spring and I weep...

For there has never been a story nearly as tragic as the one of Frankenstein, except for that of Johnny Heart and his Francesca Valentine.

But the sounds behind me tell me why. I risk a glance and see so many Zs on our asses that I wonder if they've been doing pilates all this time to get in shape for the great Whispering Pines mad-dash marathon.

The pretty ones are usually unhappy. They expect everyone to be enamored of their beauty. How can a person be content when their happiness lies in someone else's hands, ready to be crushed at any moment? Ordinary-looking people are far superior, because they are forced to actually work hard to achieve their goals, instead of expecting people to fall all over themselves to help them.

Thank you, Deke. You are very good to me.” “I know,” he smirks. “Can I get back in your bed now?

Everyone is born a freak," notes Hayley. "Every newborn baby, wet and hungry and screaming, is a fresh-hatched freak who wants to have a good time and make the world a better place. . . . Most teenagers wind up in high school. And high school is where the zombification process becomes deadly.

The line of traffic advancing towards the rising sun looked like a procession of the returning dead. Every one of them, solitaries in clean shirts, smoking, checking mirrors to see if their reflections were still there, wore dark glasses.

For an instant I saw before me the young girl this used to be.

God exists. He has one wicked since of humor, and right now he’s having a grand old time punking the planet.

I hate what’s become of the world. Most of the humans do. There’s so much violence and blood and meaningless death. It’s not even the normal kind of death where your heart stops beating and your loved ones put you in a hole in the ground. A boring way to spend eternity, but if you are lucky, that’s what you’ll get.

...So I put it out of its misery, if it really was miserable, and tried not to think about it. That was another thing they taught us at Willow Creek: don't write their eulogy, don't try to imagine who they used to be, how they came to be here, how they came to be this. I know, who doesn't do that, right? Who doesn't look at one of those things and just naturally start to wonder? It's like reading the last page of a book... your imagination just naturally spinning. And that's when you get distracted, get sloppy, let your guard down and end up leaving someone else to wonder what happened to you.

Then he said in his most excellent Mick impression, "Your powers are useless against Ninja Lords, O great zombie hunter! Surrender or feel the sting of the shuriken!

Eleanor," Daniel said. "Miss Fitt! Wake up!"I fluttered my eyelids open. "I'm not a misfit anymore," I rasped. "I thought I told you that.

Even as zombies, ridiculous prom gowns were the downfall of teenage girls, crippling them at the knees.

I don’t know how these things died without benefit of a bullet to the brain pan. They seemed to exist in an eternal twilight of longing.

I don’t know why I told you all those things, but I did. Maybe it was because I’m a drunk, and sometimes drunks like to confess.

Of course, if I eat all of him, if I spare his brain, he'll rise up and follow me back to the airport, and that might make feel better. I'll introduce him to everyone, and maybe we'll stand around and groan for a while. It's hard to say what 'friends' are any more, but that might be close.

This place is Hell’s waiting room.

Heart condition? That’s rich. I guess you can call a heart not beating a condition.-PJ

OMG YOU GUYS it has come to my attention that SOMEONE on the internet is saying that my fictional 19th century zombies are NOT SCIENTIFICALLY SOUND. Naturally, I am crushed. To think, IF ONLY I’d consulted with a zombologist or two before sitting down to write, I could’ve avoided ALL THIS EMBARRASSMENT.

No, we wern't telling Teresa. Because she had that same smell on her skin too, that dead hoocow's awful sterile rot, and until I had some answers to throw in her face I was pretending everything was fine.

I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty women can bestow.' Miss Bingley immediately fixated her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied:'Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

In you, she saw hope.”“You mean she saw his next meal.

In an age of rust, she comes up stainless steel

You’re drunk. They’d arrest you on the spot.”t“What? There’s no law against driving a car when you’re drunk.” He swayed back and forth while he spoke. “Besides, I’m not drunk.”t“Fine, you’re not drunk, but you’ve been drinking and there is a law that says you can’t drive when you’re drunk. It’s called driving while intoxicated or driving under the influence or something like that. I’ll drive.”t“Hmmm… Never heard of it. Okay- you drive.

To think that she had read the same elegiac prose he now beheld with such quiet awe made his heart sing.

What’s more insane? Hearing imaginary voices? Or not hearing the real ones?

Guns are not the problem. The species is the problem.

Nothing good is free, and nothing free is good. You want the world to change, you have to force that change behind gun smoke and lead. Blood is the price, always and ever, if you want to buy freedom.

Must you always speak with so many pop culture references?""I must, yes, but no one's making pop culture anymore, so I'm starting to feel dated. I haven't seen a new movie in two years. And you know what else I just realized?"The doctor stared a

The zombies were like Canadians, in that they looked enough like real people at first, to fool you.

Since I had a soft spot for zombies and my curiosity was killing me, I opted for plan Z.

If you love someone, you're not supposed to want them to come back. Better a peaceful sleep in the earth than the life of a zombie--not really dead but not really alive, either.

Zombies are the liberal nightmare. Here you have the masses, whom you would love to love, appearing at your front door with their faces falling off; and you’re trying to be as humane as you possibly can, but they are, after all, eating the cat. And the fear of mass activity, of mindlessness on a national scale, underlies my fear of zombies.

Our story opens where countless stories have ended in the last twenty-seven years: with an idiot—in this case, Rebecca Atherton, head of the After the End Times Irwins, winner of the Golden Steve-o Award for valor in the face of the undead—deciding it would be a good idea to go out and poke a zombie with a stick to see what happens.

Sometimes you have to do something ugly so that something beautiful can grow.

The burning red taste of blood floods my mouth. The sparkle of life sprays out of his cells like citrus mist from an orange peel, and I suck it in.

A tomb is a vault, a vault is a home,” Mr. Sadlot said casually sniffing the flower in his lapel. “That’s where the deceased chose to reside and that is where he will be placed.” Kekaju and the Hidden Swamp

There were a few nighttime pedestrians on the block, but they continued on their way, dutifully ignoring the zombie vomiting blood out of the back of my car. Good old New Yorkers. They really couldn't care less.

The people inside the gym didn’t stand a dead drunk’s chance.

There are bad people out there, Jimmy. I don’t know if you’ve seen them… they walk around like they’re lost. And they make people sick by hurting them. That’s why we stay inside.