There is a continuity about the garden and an order of succession in the garden year which is deeply pleasing, and in one sense there are no breaks or divisions - seed time flows on to flowering time and harvest… — Susan Hill Copy Share Image
“Here, in the garden at night, it is another world, strange and yet friendly and familiar, never frightening. There is such quietness, such sweetness, such refreshment. Close your eyes. Breathe in again, smell everything mingled together, flowers and earth and leaves and grass. Smell the night. Listen. Nothing at all. Silence, rushing like the sea in your ears. However small… — Susan Hill Copy Share
I read a lot of ghost stories because I was writing a ghost story. I didn't think at all I was writing a horror… — Susan Hill Copy Share Image
A man may be accused of cowardice for fleeing away from all manner of physical dangers but when things supernatural, insubstantial and inexplicable threaten… — Susan Hill Copy Share Image
“You try so hard to shield me, and protect me, and really, there is no need, you try so hard to hide what you… — Susan Hill Copy Share Image
Books help to form us. If you cut me open, you will find volume after volume, page after page, the contents of every one… — Susan Hill Copy Share Image
Ghost stories ... tell us about things that lie hidden within all of us, and which lurk outside all around us. — Susan Hill Copy Share Image
“I was frightened of myself, I seemed to have no control over my thoughts and feelings, it was like a sort of madness...” — Susan Hill Copy Share Image
“I go downstairs and the books blink at me from the shelves. Or stare. In a trick of the light, a row of them seems to shift very slightly, like a curtain blown by the breeze through an open window. Red is next to blue is next to cream is adjacent to beige. But when I look again, cream is… — Susan Hill Copy Share
“They told of dripping stone walls in uninhabited castles and of ivy-clad monastery ruins by moonlight, of locked inner rooms and secret dungeons, dank charnel houses and overgrown graveyards, of footsteps creaking upon staircases and fingers tapping at casements, of howlings and shriekings, groanings and scuttlings and the clanking of chains, of hooded monks and headless horseman, swirling mists and… — Susan Hill Copy Share
