He piled fib on top of lie on top of exaggeration and cemented it all with hyperbole.
Keep her downstairs a minute!' I breathed desperately. I don't know why; you don't want your agonies of soul witnessed by a woman. ("Nightmare")
I am Melody Malone, with ice in my heart and a kiss on my lips. In the city that never sleeps and should never blink, mysteries are my business.
Writing the middle of a novel is a lot like driving through Texas. You think it's never going to end, and the scenery looks the same.
I am sure now that life is not what it is purported to be and that nature, in the canny words of the Scotch theologue, 'is not as natural as it looks.
The concept of the psychopath is, in fact, an admission of failure to solve the mystery of evil—it is merely a restatement of the mystery—and only offers an escape valve for the frustration felt by psychiatrists, social workers, and police office...
It was this mystery, bereft now of all fear, and this beauty together that made life the endless, changing and yet changeless, thing it was. And yet mystery and loveliness alike were really only appreciable with one's legs, as it were, dangling down ...
This guy’s got a mustache that’s made for TV. I’ve got a mustache that’s made for radio. I keep it zipped up quiet in my pants, next to my cigar.
If I were a betting man, and Thank Vegas I’m not, I’d say this bartender looks guilty of murder. Or maybe he just looks drunk. Possibly the two looks are identical.
This couple thought they were as smooth as crunchy peanut butter. But they didn’t fool me with their Bonnie and Clyde act. I knew they were guilty of being innocent the moment I saw them.
This picture has a lot of motion and features one person being forcibly removed. Reminds me of the commotion of my heart. Love is a lot like a crime scene.
This women is all about the kiss—the kiss of death. But if her sinister lips offer the joy of heaven, followed by the torment of hell, then I’ll be the first to pucker up.
She looks so serious. Why such a stern look? Oh yeah, somebody’s just been murdered. With all my diabolical laughter, I seem to have forgotten about that.
The guy in the white fedora looks like he’s reading a love letter. I say that only because he looks so confused, what else could the subject matter be?
Tut! Magic, indeed! As if there weren't marvels enough without magic. Pictures traveling by telephone, and men bouncing up and down on the moon? Trees and floors and children growing? There are your marvels.
Good grief! They're going to call us inside soon, and Sticky hasn't even met Madge yet!" "Who's Madge?" Sticky asked. "Her Majesty the Queen!
One-and-twenty sorts of birds,” said Ser Kyle. “One-and-twenty sorts of bird droppings,” said Ser Maynard. “You have no poetry in your heart, ser.” “You have shit upon your shoulder.
And in that moment I experience a revelation. I realize now that it was a painful sense that the world is purposeless, the lazy fruit of a misunderstanding, but in that moment I was able to translate what I felt only as: "God does not exist.
Most science fiction seemed to be written for people who already liked science fiction; I wanted to write stories for anyone, anywhere, living at any time in the history of the world.
Miss Howard: Like a good detective story myself. Lots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last Chapter. Everyone dumbfounded. Real crime - you'd know at once.
When they came it was as if the lord of the world had arrived, and had brought all the glories of its kingdoms along; and when they went they left a calm behind which was like the deep sleep which follows an orgy.
