“You never know the palette of the one you kill until the mind disgorges its finest colours.”

“I realized aloud in the midst of saying it that even when we die we probably don't find the answer as to why we were ever alive. [...] Do you realize that! We'll never know why the hell any of it happened, not even when it's over! We're going to die and not even know. We'll never know, and all this meaningless will just go on and on and on. And we won't any longer be witnesses to it. We won't have even that little bit of power to give meaning to it in our minds. We'll just be gone, dead, dead, dead, without ever knowing.”

“It's an awful truth that suffering can deepen us, give a greater lustre to our colours, a richer resonance to our words.”

“I love you still, that's the torment of it. Lestat I never loved. But you! The measure of my hatred is that love. They are the same! Do you know now how much I hate you!”

“It's not so," I said. "And how long do you think it will sustain you, feeling and seeing and touching and tasting, if there is no love? No one with you?”

“And what if I never go of my own free will? Will you pitch me from some windowso that I must fly or fall? Will you bolt all shutters after me? You had better, becauseI'll knock and knock and knock until I fall down dead. I'll have no wings that take meaway from you.”

“As if the night had said to me, ‘You are the night and the night alone understands you and enfolds you in its arms’ One with the shadows. Without nightmare. An inexplicable peace.”