“I tucked my arm under my head and started crying like a child. I was perishing from exhaustion. I was worn and miserable and I loved crying. I couldn’t do anything else. I gave in to it fully. I felt that profound release of the utterly grief-stricken. I didn’t give a damn who saw or heard. I cried and cried.”

“I am an unwilling devil. I cry like some vagrant child. I want to go home.”

“Do you know what I think about crying? I think some people have to learn to do it. But once you learn, once you know how to really cry, there's nothing quite like it. I feel sorry for those who don't know the trick. It's like whistling or singing.”

“I started to cry then, and I cried for a long time without making much noise. I cried and cried like a little kid.”

“Garden of Pain, I need you. What were the songs of beasts to the cries of sentient souls?”

“I wasn't sent here to find angels! I wasn't sent here to dream of them. I wasn't sent here to hear them sing! I was sent here to be alive. To breathe and sweat and thirst and sometimes cry.”

“Yet I saw crypts when I looked at him, and I heard the beat of kettledrums. I saw torchlit fields where I had never been, heard vague incantations, felt the heat of raging fires on my face. And they didn't come out of him, these visions. Rather I drew them out on my own.Yet I never had Nicolas, mortal or immortal, been so alluring. Never had Gabrielle held me so in thrall.Dear God, this is love. This is desire. And all my past amours have been but the shadow of this."— Lestat de Lioncourt”