Carla H. Krueger Quotes


Type: Writer

Born: 0


Carla H. Krueger is a contemporary fiction writer who values freedom, imagination, courage and independence above all else. Exploring themes such as fate and free will, convention versus rebellion, the dangers of ignorance, overcoming fear and control, difficult family relationships, the joy and pain of everyday events and the strengths of both individuals and communities in the fight against censorship and repression, her work is both hard-hitting, humorous, psychological and inventive.

Carla H. Krueger Quotes

Lyrics paved my teenage route to loving words. I take those passionate mini-stories with me everywhere.

My characters don't always know more than the reader does, because my readers get the best seat in Paper House.

One day, I decided I was going to write books forever.

Bea stared at the pencils as if they were enemies.

I enjoy creating characters, telling lies, having freedom, being myself, challenging perspectives, arguing, creating something everlasting, following in hero footsteps, making readers cry or laugh and occasionally scaring the dinner out of people.

Even the young can be warriors.

Writing is just building a new world – one character, one place, one maniac at a time.

Books are readable drugs.

Writing is a solitary existence, especially if you forget to chat to your friends – sorry, I meant characters.

Trap yourself inside your own brain, switch off the light, block all the escape routes, then turn your back on everything you know to be reality and try and survive there. Try. Living. Nowhere.

Time is not an enemy as such, but a missing person, sending cryptic postcards from the past.

At first, I didn’t understand. Understanding came very slowly.

I need a new trick if I am to walk without legs, see without eyes or speak without words.

It’s unpleasant magic, the kind that darkens the senses, the kind no one wants to experience, but once in a lifetime might not be able to avoid.

No trees, sky or ground. No other buildings or fields. No winding path, no brambles, no outhouse or pond or flowers, no sunshine or children playing. Just blackness.

Even though I knew, deep down, what she was trying to do, I couldn’t hate her. Even when she hurt me, I forgave her.

Right now, in this dusty anti-paradise, I have absolutely no hand in the future at all.

I have always hated lies; my own and everyone else’s.

I used to love lulling, running water – a sound so infrequent in cityscapes. Its loss always made me feel lonely when I lived amongst concrete.

Truth starts with a sense.

A thick rivulet of lost blood reflects a city that will mourn but never die.

Dwelling on the loneliness inherent in a city such as this when you dream of endless mountains and expanses of blue sky is a recipe for torment.

Pain is usually all on the surface, but this terror is internal; not just a hurt, but a new language of feeling.

I lose it when I can't write. I feel sad and confused and fucked off.

Some books are so vivid, I think the words fell off the page and worked their way inside my head.

I like to discover something new each day, to interpret the world in a way others might not, like a child might approach new experiences.

When I write, it feels like there are two little creatures that sit on each of my shoulders. One whispers, "You can do this. You've got what it takes." The other sounds like my mother-in-law.

Fiction genres are stranger than fiction, as the saying goes.

I love to pull at people’s heart strings, but I’m no Nicholas Sparks.

I do not do free e-books. I occasionally like to eat that thing you people call "food".

Happy endings. *Groan*

Without pride, man becomes a parasite – and there are already too many parasites.

Don’t mock my suggestions, Ridley – one day in the near future, they might just save your life.” Maxwell D. Kalist.

Shame comes in different doses.

It’s late and most of the clerks are at home in their beds, dreaming of swimming in pools filled with real money.

He’s in a side room alone with her and it’s far too fucking hot.

Every time I so much as blink you get an erection.

I hate working with sexy women.” Dimitri Pissec.

A black-haired bitch with man’s hands, widow Liza Van der Bruggenziltch-Finch makes all the important decisions. She is a power-hungry dominatrix. Orwell is her slave. (No one ever sees him.)

Do I need to fire the little prat yet?” Liza Van der Bruggenziltch-Finch.

The beagles are partying under Geiger’s desk.

I’m warning you because you’re young and vulnerable. He’s a dirty, lying, conniving piece of shit and he’s dangerous.” Gottfried Baumauer.

Secrets are dangerous.” Gottfried Baumauer.

Men circle like bees around honey, buzzing to communicate their sexual despair.

His manhood sways briefly, then comes to a standstill.

You are a more powerful person than you might have ever imagined.” Maxwell D. Kalist.

Are there not times, Ridley, when you yourself wish only to hear the best in people – and not to be dragged downwards into the underworld we all regularly inhabit?

You need a father figure in your life.

Kalist brings out his best for the clincher. “You’ve never really loved your wife, have you, Ridley?

Obelmäker always suspected Kalist of being a driven man with a determined selfishness that verged on sociopathic, but he actually appears to be suffering for once, in a humane way, like one who has been driven and selfish previously, but has slowly started to see the gigantic error of his ways.

Baumauer wants a life in which he cannot be belittled, judged or controlled by worse men.

To Kalist, Baumauer’s just a timber bridge in need of a good hot fire.

Only men with intelligence, confidence and absolutely no empathy at all can progress upstairs.

Kalist is in his office with the door shut, secretly adding the final touches to his new Brichacek doll; she’s got rosy, plaster cheeks and his nose hairs for pubes, although he thinks he might die them blond to go with her hair.

Kalist likes to listen to the collective voices swell as more individuals in his colony arrive.

Obelmäker is a deeply fearful person and terribly indecisive. Even when he makes a choice, it’s usually bad.

An overnight bag with the company logo – a white silhouette of a finch (which once perched on the curved back of a stallion representing cofounder, Orwell, but has now been ‘adjusted’) – sits motionless beside him on the carpet, sucking up bedbugs.

You’re a fat cunt and you can’t add up to save your life.” Dimitri Pissec.

Opposite Pissec sits ghoulish Gottfried Baumauer, a tall, skinny workaholic with dark-ringed eye sockets and long, yellowing smoker’s fingers. He’s thirty-eight. He doesn’t say much. He drinks a lot of tea – likes it strong as tar. He lines up the strained, dry bags on his desk like dead, tailless voles.

Obelmäker is eating at his desk, a habit both Baumauer and Pissec find repulsive.

As Baumauer hangs his shit-coloured coat up on a hook he takes clandestine pleasure in engulfing Obelmäker’s less impressive attire with his own. Privately, he warns the inferior coat, “Don’t suffocate in there.

Baumauer secretly fears Kalist – and Kalist knows it.

Pissec approaches Pamela Geiger’s cubicle, itching in rhythm with her. He wants to ask her a question while Kalist is out of earshot. She’s not a grass, he’s sure, but stupid people die first.

The fear of silence is a fear everyone should overcome.

All the best writers take risks, offend people often and say fuck you to the critics.

The drive was strangely calm. Deathly calm. Dark, light …. dark, light …. dark again as we glided under repeat street lighting. Four men sitting silently in four leather seats. Could hear the creaks. The smallest sounds are the most terrifying.

My spine spoke to me; I felt vulnerable, like he was gradually covering me in a heavy layer of gold without even having to touch me.

I hate going back. I’d rather live at the bottom of my river of black, dragged this way and that by the forces that be, than go back there. Those forty-eight hours took twenty years to drown.

A silence absorbed them both – a lack of sound so potent it blackened the place with something richer than hate.

So much of what we read nowadays is there one moment and gone the next. When you read something good, cherish it.

I have a very addictive personality. If it isn’t women, it’s money. If it isn’t money, it’s speeding. And if it isn’t speeding, it’s women. I also like expensive video consoles where I can punch, kick, screw, shoot and drive legally all night anywhere I fucking well want to.

Two hours later and I had to fork out for her taxi home. Bitch didn’t even give me her number. I wasn’t properly pissed because I’d controlled my urge to drink heavily so I could bone her good and proper when the time came. Fucking joke. No wonder some men take what’s never given.

Reality was dawning on him and he hated reality. If you were him, so would you.

No matter what the good boys tell you, criminality is not a level playing field.

I suffered my own battles. I suffer still.

It was all death.

Blank walls are a shared canvas and we're all artists.

Katie began to draw in the secrecy of her room, in anger at first, using her mother’s pencils and whatever paper she could find. Sometimes, she had to steal from Nader’s study to replenish her supplies, but it was worth it. She was nothing but a scribbler to begin with – scrawled lines, misshapen monsters – but slowly, she found a style.

Please, never tell me what 'horror erotica' is. Real #art is being lost in a bizarre swamp of over-processed, sexually exploitative garbage.

Today’s controversy is tomorrow’s sea change.

Grumman provided the excuse and Nader provided the pain.

When I read a daring book or listen to rebellious music, I feel like I've found what freedom really means.

The greatest barrier to self-understanding is our fear of knowing the truth within ourselves, but when we do understand ourselves, we greatly enhance what we are capable of.

Fuck choice. I want freedom.

I became a physicist to understand the world, then I became a writer to try and change it.

It was all changing. All of it. And it was horrible and it was lovely.

I’m endlessly fascinated by the way people interact, what they say to each other and how they respond to different situations.

Katie soon learned there was a problem with hope.

Katie quickly learned the best way is to see another world entirely.

The fear of not being remembered is a dangerous thing.

First time I ever put pen to paper, I had one goal – to build something no one had ever thought of before.

The best restaurants are always down the side streets.

Motivation is my problem: I’m almost too motivated. I lie awake thinking how Kris would dress for the occasion or why Benjamin would be upset in the field or how the hell Brianna will manage to give birth to the baby under all that stress.

It’s much harder to twist the charitable arm of a lottery winner compared to that of a man at his lowest ebb. It sounds like the wrong way round at first, but when you really put your nut to it, people are more frightened of losing the big shit than of having fuck all to begin with and losing a bit of that.

I’m going to fight, in my own way, until there’s nothing left of me to stuff inside the barrel and ignite.

If I don't stay in and write, I feel like a prisoner.

You have to know your own mind inside out before you can know the minds of others.

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