God’s creatures who cried themselves to sleep stirred to cry again.
You know how cats do. They hide to die. Dogs come home.
You must understand that when you are writing a novel you are not making anything up. It’s all there and you just have to find it.
I know what you’re afraid of. It’s not pain, or solitude. It’s indignity you can’t stand, Hannibal, you’re like a cat that way.
He lives down in a ribcage in the dry leaves of a heart.
Can you smell his sweat? That peculiar goatish odor is trans-3-methyl-2 hexenoic acid. Remember it, it’s the smell of schizophrenia.
In making friends, she was wary of people who foster dependency and feed on it. She had been involved with a few–the blind attract them, and they are the enemy.
…the man to love rarely coincides with the hour of loving.
When I couldn’t speak I was not drawn into silence, silence captured me.
I’m giving serious thought into eating yor wife” – Hannibal Lecter
Pictures … flashed on her in sudden color, too much color, shocking color, the color that leaps out of black when lightning strikes at night.
The advantage of beating a mute is he can’t tell on you.
You must understand that when you are writing a novel you are not making anything up.
Show Dr. Princi your teeth. That’s right, let’s see ’em all. Christ, Sparks, is that your tongue or are you swallowing a squirrel? Keep moving –
Orion is above the horizon now, and near it Jupiter, brighter than it will ever be … But i expect you can see it too. Some of our stars are the same.
When the Fox hears the Rabbit scream he comes a-runnin’, but not to help.
He liked the Leedses. He was sorry that he had been to the morgue. He thought the madman who visited them might have liked them too. But the madman would like them better the way they were now.
It would be so nice to be wanted by someone with the courage to get his hat or stay as he damn pleased, and who gave her credit for the same. Someone who didn’t worry about her.
He came back to the car, long legs lifting high in the snow, and there was snow in his hair and on his eyelashes and I remembered that I love him. It felt like something breaking with a little pain and spilling warm.
Writing novels is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, including digging irrigation ditches.