Top 129 Quotes & Sayings by Isaac Marion

I adapt to things quickly, including good things, which I wish I could shut off sometimes.

Regret is pointless. I never do anything without first deciding to do it based on facts and feelings, and if it doesn't work out how I hoped, oh well - there's another notch on my experience belt.

The kind of stuff I usually read is a bit more on the literary side, like books that I think are influential in the sense that they're doing pulpy subject matter in a refined way. Like 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy; I loved that book.

Sometimes it's a struggle to live in the moment.

Every experience, good or bad, is a priceless collector's item.

My favorite songs change every year.

'Warm Bodies' ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.

It's rare that I read more than two or three books by any one author; usually only one.

I've always been interested in writing from the perspective of an outsider.

I used to split my time between writing, music and painting. I would work on a book and then abandon it, start a band, do an album, quit music, then do a gallery show. Eventually I decided to give writing a serious shot.

Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

No praise, no blame. Just so.

But it does make me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I miss my own and I mourn for everyone else's, because I'd like to love them, but I don't know who they are.

Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.

We're fumbling in the dark, but at least we're in motion.

I want a new past,new memories, a new first handshake with love. I want to start over in every possible way.

Regret is pointless. I never do anything without first deciding to do it based on facts and feelings, and if it doesn't work out how I hoped, oh well, there's another notch on my experience belt.

My friend "M" says the irony of being a zombie is that everything is funny, but you can't smile, because your lips have rotted off.

What happened to the world was gradual. I've forgotten what it actually was, but I have faint, fetal memories of what it was like. A smoldering dread that never really caught fire till there wasn't much left to burn. Each sequential step surprised us. Then one day we woke up, and everything was gone.

I hate that she's hurt. I hate that she's been hurt, by me and by others, throughout the entire arc of her life. I barely remember pain, but when I see it in her I feel it in myself, in disproportionate measure. it creeps into my eyes, stinging, burning.

Life only makes any sense if we can see time how God does. Past, present, and future all at once.

What I'm saying is, when you have weight like that in your life, you have to start looking for the bigger picture or you are gonna sink.

What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature

I don't know... there's something kind of beautiful about it, don't you think? That we keep living and growing even though our world is a corpse? That we keep coming back no matter how many of us die?

We smile, because this is how we save the world.

She hugs me. It's tentative at first, a little scared, and yes, a little repulsed, but then she melts into it. She rests her head against my cold neck and embraces me. Unable to believer what's happening, I put my arm around her and just hold her. I almost swear I can feel my heart thumping. But it must just be hers, pressed tightly against my chest.

I'm watching her talk. Watching her jaw move and collecting her words one by one as they spill from her lips. I don't deserve them. Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything I paint seems to peel.

Here it comes. My inevitable death, ignoring me all those years when I wished for it daily, arriving only after I've decided I want to live forever.

I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.

...wanting change is step one, but step two is taking it.

Music? Music is life! It’s physical emotion - you can touch it! It’s neon ecto-energy sucked out of spirits and switched into sound waves for your ears to swallow. Are you telling me, what, that it’s boring? You don’t have time for it?

I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.

I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.

Breathing is optional, but I need some air.

I think for a minute. Watching my wife fade into the distance, I put a hand on my heart. "Dead." I wave a hand toward my wife. "Dead." My eyes drift toward the sky and lose their focus. "Want it...to hurt. But...doesn't." Julie looks at me like she's waiting for more, and I wonder if I've expressed anything at all with my halting, mumbled soliloquy. Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting? I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.

You should always be taking pictures, if not with a camera then with your mind. Memories you capture on purpose are always more vivid than the ones you pick up by accident.

Deep under our feet the Earth holds its molten breath, while the bones of countless generations watch us and wait.

God has made us study partner. We need to talk about our project.

In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.

Sometimes I wonder if he has a philosophy. Maybe even a worldview. I'd like to sit down with him and pick his brain, just a tiny bit somewhere in the frontal lobe to get a taste of his thoughts. But he's too much of a toughguy to ever be that vulnerable. - R on M

I adapt to things quickly, including good things, which I wish I could shut off sometimes. My friends have to keep reminding me how crazy my life has become, and then it hits me fresh and I just slap my forehead and think, "Wait, what... ?"

What's wrong with people?" she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. "Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?

I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?

And yet ... But what if ... I want to do something impossible. Something astounding and unheard of. I want to scrub the moss off the Space Shuttle and fly Julie to the moon and colonise it, or float a capsized cruise ship to some distant island where no one will protest us, or just harness the magic that brings me into the brains of the Living and use it to bring Julie into mine, because it's warm in here, it's quiet and lovely, and in here we aren't an absurd juxtaposition, we are perfect.

I think we crushed ourselves down over the centuries. Buried ourselves under greed and hate and whatever other sins we could find until our souls finally hit the rock bottom of the universe. And then they scraped a hole through it, into some ... darker place.

We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.

There is no ideal world for you to wait around for. The world is always just what it is now, and it's up to you how you respond to it.

I wonder how well she sleeps at night, and what kind of dreams she has. I wish I could step into them like she steps into mine.

I crush her against me. I want to be part of her. Not just inside her but all around her. I want our rib cages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. I want our cells to braid together like living thread.

It's a strange feeling, being so utterly surrounded by her. Her life scent is on everything. She's on me and under me and next to me. It's as if the entire room is made out of her.

You know things are moving. You're changing, you fellow Dead are changing, the world is ready for something miraculous. What are we waiting for?

I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.

Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.

Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.

A month ago there was nothing on Earth I missed, enjoyed, or longed for. I knew I could lose everything and not feel anything, and I rested easy in that knowledge. But I'm growing tired of easy things.

Is this muteness a real physical handicap? One of the many symptoms of being Dead?Or do we just have nothing left to say?

In my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses.

The past is made out of facts...I guess the future is just hope.

I can feel it... the chance to start over, to live right, to love right, to burn up in a fiery cloud and never again be buried in the mud.

That's why we have memory. And the opposite of memory— hope. So things that are gone can still matter. So we can built off our pasts and make future.