- But the lies she told were woven into the fabric of her being, her life; so that to live with her and love her was to become slowly enmeshed by them, to wrestle her for the truth, to struggle to maintain a foothold on reality. How could it have happened, that he, who from his most extreme youth had needed to investigate, to know sure, to winkle the truth out of smallest conundrums, could have fallen in love so hard, and for so long, with a girl who spun lies as easily as other women breathed?
- He had never been able to understand the assumption of intimacy fans felt with those they had never met.
- Nillness, thought Strike, for a second distracted. He had slept badly. Nillness, that was where Luna Landry had gone, and where all of them, he and Rochelle included, were headed. Sometimes illness turned slowly to nillness, as was happening to Bristow's mother...sometimes nillness rose to meet you out of nowhere, like a concrete road slamming your skull apart.
- The dead could only speak through the mouths of those left behind, and through the signs they left scattered behind them.
- How easy it was to capitalise on a person's own bent for self-destruction; how simple to nudge them into non-being, then to stand back and shrug and agree that it had been the inevitable result of chaotic, catastrophic life.
- Through the shaded window came the sounds of London, alive at all hours, rumbling and growling, part man, part machine.
oct 25 2013 ∞
oct 27 2013 +
oct 27 2013 +