Fat Charlie wondered what Rosie's mother would usually hear in a church. Probably just cries of "Back! Foul best of Hell!" followed by gasps of "Is it alive?" and a nervous inquiry as to whether anybody had remembered to bring the stakes and hammers.

That's the trouble with you young people. You think because you ain't been here long$$$ you know everything. In my life I already forgot more than you ever know.

People still have the same story$$$ the one where they get born and they do stuff and they die$$$ but now the story means something different to what it meant before.

Stories are like spiders$$$ with all they long legs$$$ and stories are like spiderwebs$$$ which man gets himself all tangled up in but which look so pretty when you see them under a leaf in the morning dew$$$ and in the elegant way that they connect to one another$$$ each to each.What’s that? You want to know if Anansi looked like a spider? Sure he did$$$ except when he looked like a man.No$$$ he never changed his shape. It’s just a matter of how you tell the story. That’s all.

People take on the shapes of the songs and the stories that surround them$$$ especially if they don't have their own song.

Stories are webs$$$ interconnected strand to strand$$$ and you follow each story to the center$$$ because the center is the end. Each person is a strand of the story.

Stories are like spiders$$$ with all they long legs$$$ and stories are like spiderwebs$$$ which man gets himself all tangled up in but which look pretty when you see them under a leaf in the morning dew$$$ and in the elegant way that they connect to one another$$$ each to each.

Fat Charlie had had no real liking for the police$$$ but until now$$$ he had still managed to cling to a fundamental trust in the natural order of things$$$ a conviction that there was some kind of power--a Victorian might have thought of it as Providence--that ensured that the guilty would be punished while the innocent would be set free.

Each person whoever was or is or will be has a song. It isn’t a song that anybody else wrote. It has its own melody$$$ it has its own words. Very few people get to sing their own song. Most of us fear that we cannot do it justice with our voices$$$ or that our words are too foolish or too honest$$$ or too odd. So people live their songs instead.Take Daisy$$$ for example.

It was not that he was feckless$$$ more that he had simply not been around the day they handed out feck.