“Luck is a fickle girl who doesn’t like lingering in any one place; she strokes your hair back from your brow, kisses you quickly and flits away. Lady Misfortune, by contrast, presses you tightly to her loving heart; she says she’s not in a hurry, sits down beside your bed and knits.”

“And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair, With gold in her garment glittering, And she combs her golden hair.”

“If you love her, set her free. If she comes back, she’s yours. If she doesn’t…Christ! Stubborn woman! Hunt her down, and bring her the hell back; she’s still yours according to vampire law.” - Niccolo DiConti, General of the Vampire Queen’s Army.”

“When the leeches have sucked enough blood, one simply has to sprinkle some salt on their backs and they fall off – But you, my friend, how can I get rid of you? Your despairing cousin”

“Still is the night, it quiets the streets down,In that window my love would appear;She's long since gone away from this town,But this house where she lived still remains here.A man stands here too, staring up into space,And wrings his hands with the strength of his pain:It chills me, when I behold his pale faceFor the moon shows me my own features again!You spirit double, you specter with my faceWhy do you mock my love-pain soThat tortured me here, here in this placeSo many nights, so long ago?”

“Gabriel pulled her over his body to lie on the bed beside him. His kisses pressed her down into the oblivion of the mattress as her hands explored his chest, his shoulders, his face."I want to lay my kill at your feet," he said, more growl than words, and held her tight by her hair as he marked her neck with his teeth.She writhed against him. She wanted to bite him, she wanted to rip the flesh from his back, but most terrible of all, she didn't want him to stop. Her back arched, her body shattered, she howled.”

“1976. The Bicentennial. In the laundromat, you want for the time on your coins to run out. Through the porthole of the dryer, you watch your bedeviled towels and sheets leap and fall. The radio station piped in from the ceiling plays slow, sad Motown; it encircles you with the desperate hopefulness of a boy at a dance, and it makes you cry. When you get back to your apartment, dump everything on your bed. Your mother is knitting crookedly: red, white, and blue. Kiss her hello. Say: "Sure was warm in the place." She will seem not to hear you.”