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She was young and very beautiful, but pale, like the grey pallor of death.

Bram Stoker

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Bram Stoker
Age: 64 †
Born: 1847
Born: November 8
Died: 1912
Died: April 20
Clerk
Journalist
Novelist
Screenwriter
Theatre Critic
Theatre Manager
Writer
Clontarf
Ireland
Abraham Stoker
Like
Pallor
Grey
Pale
Death
Beautiful
Young

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I suppose that we women are such cowards that we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him.
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These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall. But the God created from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow.
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Loneliness will sit over our roofs with brooding wings.
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And so we remained till the red of the dawn began to fall through the snow gloom. I was desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror. But when that beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was to me again.
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The only beautiful thing in the world whose beauty lasts for ever is a pure, fair soul.
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Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he even loves me.
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He may not enter anywhere at the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come, though afterwards he can come as he please.
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Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past.
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How good and thoughtful he is the world seems full of good men--even if there are monsters in it.
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I am Dracula, and I bid you welcome . . .
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There are such beings as vampires, some of us have evidence that they exist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane peoples.
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Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere.
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We learn of great things by little experiences.
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I have a sort of empty feeling nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing.
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The Stars are a long way off, and their words get somewhat dulled in the message.
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Never did tombs look so ghastly white. Never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funeral gloom. Never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously. Never did bough creak so mysteriously, and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.
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Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on?
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We are in Transylvania, and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may be.
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For me, I say no, but then I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his song of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind. You others are young. Some have seen sorrow, but there are fair days yet in store. What say you?
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No man knows where the Castle of King Death is. All men and women, boys and girls, and even little wee children should so live that when they have to enter the Castle and see the grim King, they may not fear to behold his face.
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