Dr. Fell, do you believe a man could become so obsessed with a woman, from a single encounter? Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for her and find nourishment in the very sight of her? I think so. But would she see through the bars of his plight and ache for him?
Problem-solving is hunting; it is savage pleasure and we are born to it.
Over this odd world, this half the world that’s dark now, I have to hunt a thing that lives on tears.
You know how cats do. They hide to die. Dogs come home.
What does he do, Clarice? What is the first and principal thing he does, what need does he serve by killing? He covets. How do we begin to covet? We begin by coveting what we see every day.
But the face on the pillow, rosy in the firelight, is certainly that of Clarice Starling, and she sleeps deeply, sweetly, in the silence of the lambs.
He was numb except for dreading the loss of numbness.
Back at his chair he cannot remember what he was reading. He feels the books beside him to find the one that is warm.
The very air had screams smeared on it. He flinched from the noise in this silent room.
The worm that destroys you is the temptation to agree with your critics, to get their approval.
Typhoid and swans – it all comes from the same place.
There is a common emotion we all recognize and have not yet named – the happy anticipation of being able to feel contempt.
I think it’s easy to mistake understanding for empathy – we want empathy so badly. Maybe learning to make that distinction is part of growing up. It’s hard and ugly to know somebody can understand you without even liking you.
Did you ever think, Clarice, why the Philistines don’t understand you? It’s because you are the answer to Samson’s riddle. You are the honey in the lion.
We routinely leave our small children in day care among strangers. At the same time, in our guilt we evince paranoia about strangers and foster fear in children.
Life’s too slippery for books, Clarice; anger appears as lust, lupus presents as hives.
I’ll confess it is pleasant to look at you asleep. You’re quite beautiful, Clarice.
Hannibal Lecter: We live in a primitive time – don’t we, Will? – neither savage nor wise. Half measures are the curse of it. Any rational society would either kill me or give me my books.
When Will Graham could open his right eye, he saw the clock and knew where he was- an intensive-care unit. He knew to watch the clock. Its movement assured him that this was passing, would pass. That’s what it was there for.
The advantage of beating a mute is he can’t tell on you.