Quotes / Brown Note

Black Mage: I thought you'd sound more, you know, evil.
Evil God: My true voice would make your brain eat itself.
Black Mage: You are so cool.

Loneliness + Alienation + Fear + Despair + Self-worth ÷ Mockery ÷ Condemnation ÷ Misunderstanding x Guilt x Shame x Failure x Judgment, n=y where y=Hope and n=Folly, Love=Lies, Life=Death, Self=DARKSEID

Waldorf: So, what happens if you read The King in Yellow? Do you go insane?
Statler: Worse! You try to write something similar!
Both: Do-ho-ho-ho-hoh!

"Surfing on the internet, I found a comic so horrific that reading it is a challenge to anyone's sanity. My mind went temporarily blind at the index just by the hideous drawing. It's like my own brain tried to prevent me from reading the comic. I persisted; I wanted to see how bad this could be[...] every page was a battle against my body to move on, an animal reflex against torture of this calibre. So bad, my doctor has certified that I got brain damage, heart palpitations, lung corrosion, and some mild cirrhosis, all from reading it[...]
I've 20 years less to live now. I can barely speak past gibberish. But you must know. You must be warned of this torment."
N106, Bad Webcomics Wiki, on 'Look What I've Brought Home.'

"Words no eyes should see, telling of things no sane mind could fathom."
Scroll of Griselbrand, a card in Magic: The Gathering

"Iím just trying to get through to you guys just how scary this fucking thing is. What if thereís magic in there? Actual magic, huh? What if we have to rethink everything we know about everything? What if itís a tiny little demon named Palbo trying to test us? Let me get back on topic here."
Corin Deeth III, Kakos Industries

The music you create is far from ordinary; it's the work of a mad Mozart. Those who listen to it in its entirety are exposed to notes that are... subversive, you might call them. Subtly and mercilessly, your work insinuates itself into the listener, roosting in their skulls, never fully leaving them. Pity the poor monster who attunes himself to one of your recitals with Auspex...
The Composer, Vampire: The Masquerade - Clanbook: Malkavian (Revised)

Somewhere, a trucker reads alien letters carved into the bathroom stall walls of a truck stop. He cannot look away. Pathogens in the grammar open an event horizon in his head. He spreads the scrawl in every stop on his route, carving it into the stalls. He itches and he scratches. Others see the letters. They itch. They scratch. He scratches his face, draws the runes in red with his box knife. His head blossoms into a bouquet of writhing lampreys.
The Buzzing, The Secret World

I revel in my irredeemable divinity. I inflict the meaningless agonies of the Embryo Vats, the Howling Loom and the Narrow Spawn; contrive psychotropic plagues which culminate in complex ballets of ritual slaughter and synchronized mass suicide. Language reverts to its primal origins: a sonic carcinogen that literally devours brain tissue and nervous systems; a single conversation is sufficient to reduce its participants to comatose vegetables.
Black Static, by David Conway

There is a word, which when spoken inveigles its way into the mind of the speaker and manifests itself in his flesh. It forces its bearer to speak itself again and again, in the company of others, that they might be tempted to echo it. With each utterance, another wormwood is born, until the brain is tunneled quite through: and when those listening repeat what they have heard, in curiosity and mockery, if their utterance is just so, a wormwoood is hatched in their heads.

Cy: I'm the one holding the gun, braniac. And my generosity's about to end, so why don't we start with you telling me your real name?
Mr Arkham: ...Very well...
[He does so - in a speechless full-page panel; Cy's expression freezes, and he slumps forward into a Troubled Fetal Position]
Mr Arkham: Odd, isn't it? How the human brain is incapable of processing my native words. But it's to be expected from an animal such as you. When compared to the power and music of a true divine language, even the most poetic of human preening, the height of linguistic arrogance is nothing more than the comprehensible barking of dogs. However, to satisfy your curiosity, perhaps a close approximation that your canine tongue can manage: Nyarlathotep.
Fall of Cthulhu: The Fugue

A language is seeping from the skull - a viscous, cracked sound like breaking bones and molten rock. My eyes sting and my face blisters.
"Shut it! Shut the door!"
Tobias is screaming, but whatever he's saying has no relation to me. It's as though I'm watching a play. Blood is leaking from his eyes. Patrick is grinning widely, his own eyes like bloody headlamps. He's violently twisting his right ear, working it like an apple stem. Johnny is sitting quietly, holding his gathered brains in his hands, rocking back and forth like an unhappy child. My upper arms are hurting, and it takes me a minute to realize that I'm gouging them with my fingernails. I can't make myself stop.
Outside, a sound rolls across the swamp like a foghorn: a deep answering bellow to the language of Hell seeping from the closet.
The Atlas of Hell, by Nathan Ballingrud