It's amazing the stupid things I say sometimes. I mean$$$ you could start an entire branch of scientific research about the stuff I say that gets proved wrong while I'm still busy saying it.

They told me to take a streetcar named Desire and then transfer to one called Cemeteries and ride six blocks and get off at - Elysian Fields!

Was Briony the only person who could hear the venom dripping from the woman's tongue? What good was beauty -- a mature beauty$$$ but beauty nonetheless -- if it cloaked such a viperous soul?

A piece of writing is a trap$$$ he said cheerily$$$ and the best kind. A book$$$ you see$$$ is the only kind of trap that keeps its captive -- which is knowledge -- alive forever.

Has everyone gone mad? Everyone was mad already$$$ my lady$$$ Cadrach said with a strange$$$ sorrowful smile. It is merely that the times have brought it out in them.

I can't stand a naked light bulb$$$ any more than I can a rude remark or a vulgar action.

Once you have swung a pickax that will reveal the curve of a street four thousand years covered over which was once an active$$$ much-traveled highway$$$ you are never quite the same again.

She did not suspect that the Abbess was even there hovering about the house$$$ herself estimating the stresses and watching for the moment when a burden harms and not strengthens.

A dramatist is one who believes that the pure event$$$ an action involving human beings$$$ is more arresting than any comment that can be made upon it.

Henceforth letter-writing had to take the place of all the affection that could not be lived.