You have to try. Trying is the first step to whatever comes next.
I annoy people,” he said. “Believe me. I’m aware. It’s an effective way to communicate if you don’t have any other options. If you can’t get in through the door, throw a rock through the window. And I think maybe you’re the same way. – David, to Stevie.
He looked a bit more confused by Stevie and David, but nodded politely. “I’m a watch ad,” David said. “She’s a hipster grandpa. Together, we solve crime.
The real magic rocks are the friends we make along the way.
Where her books were, she was. Get the books right and the rest will follow.
Sherlock said, “I consider that a man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose.
Last things were so strange. Most people had no control over of what their last acts would be.
His voice was deep and smooth and rich, like what gravy might sound like if gravy could talk.
Shock is a funny thing. Things get both sharp and fuzzy. Time stretches and distorts. Things come rushing into focus and seem larger than they are. Other things vanish to a single point.
A book gives you everything. It gives you a window into other souls, other worlds. The world is a door. Books are the key.
I’d love to be a tabletop in Paris, where food is art and life combined in one, where people gather and talk for hours. I want lovers to meet over me. I’d want to be covered in drops of candle wax and breadcrumbs and rings from the bottom of wineglasses. I would never be lonely, and I would always serve a good purpose.
The critical scene of the mystery is when the detective enters. The action shifts to Sherlock’s sitting room. The little Belgian man with the waxed moustache appears in the lobby of the grand hotel. The gentle old woman with a bag of knitting comes to visit her niece when the poison pen letters start going around the village. The private detective comes back to the office after a night of drinking and finds the woman with the cigarette and the veiled hat this is when things will change.
Except for his eyes. Those were completely bloodshot. “What time did you get up?” David said, looking him over. “Four twenty?
Vitamin D,” Stevie said. “You need it.” “You don’t know that,” he said. “I want to eat my meat in my room with the lights off.” “As a writer, are those really the words you want to use?” Stevie asked.
Anything is better than doing what I’m supposed to be doing.
Annoy a Southerner and we will drain away the moments of your life with our slow, detailed replies until you are nothing but a husk of your former self and that much closer to death.
Anxiety, her therapist had told her many times, never killed anyone. It felt like death, but it was an illusion. A terrible illusion that inhabited your body and tried to make it its puppet. It told you nothing mattered because everything was made of fear.
Her parents had no idea that you could meet people outside of school and it wasn’t freaky and the internet was the way of finding your people.
I’ll go to Venice and drown my sorrows.
There is something about early mornings that changes your perceptions subtly. The light is new; no one has put on the defences of the day. All is reset and not quite real yet.