Nothing is whole, not for too damned long. The world is half night. — Peter Straub, Mystery
Nothing is whole, not for too damned long. The world is half night. — Peter Straub, Mystery
Nothing is whole, not for too damned long. The world is half night. — Peter Straub, Mystery
Nothing is whole, not for too damned long. The world is half night. — Peter Straub, Mystery
Nothing is whole, not for too damned long. The world is half night. — Peter Straub, Mystery
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Nothing is whole, not for too damned long. The world is half night.

— Peter Straub, Mystery
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More “Dark fiction” Quotes

Writing on dark themes is not as easy as one might think; you have to live the worst and the most terrifying nightmares, — Heena Rathore P.
Most people assume I write at night because of the kind of books I write, but I can shut out the light with my mind. — Carla H. Krueger
She was my black rose, a broken angel I could hug and drift away with into peaceful oblivion. — Jess C. Scott, Playmates
And I've learned to hit the brakes at these kinds of stop signs rather than t-boning a tanker truck filled with 200 proo — Benjamin Kane Ethridge, Reaping October
The Captain, so close as he was, didn’t warrant their attention. Even a fly on a horse’s hindquarters gets a tail whip. — Greever Williams, Dust on the Mound
Famine was a dirty bitch with rotten fangs, but the hunger she put in a belly bit sharp nonetheless. — T. Frohock, The Broken Road
Now that's a ghastly moon, not ghostly. — Anthea Carson, The Dark Lake
Jane sneezed three hundred dollars' worth of coke into the air.Krishna's black eyes seem to have mirrors in them. She gl — Anthea Carson, The Dark Lake
Why, oh why was I standing entranced when I should have been releasing my inner she wolf on his arse? — Lilly James, Denying Mr Parks
My name is one best whispered in terror in a dark corner. — Andrew Cormier, The Great Deceiver
We were just us, broken and bruised, fucked-up and messy, and together we were everything we never thought we could be. — T.M. Frazier, The Dark Light of Day
The surge of his ardour swept through him in climatic release, filling her womb with his final, mortal sowing. — Georgina Anne Taylor, The Woman of the Well