What were you going to do with it?” McCain asked. "I just thought it might come in useful.” "Were you planning to attack me?” "No. But that’s a good idea.

I don't know what I'd do without you. There's no one else to look after me. And it's not just that. I sometimes think you're the only person who really knows me. I only feel normal when I'm with you.

I hear it still. As I lay down my pen and take to my bed, I am aware of the bow being drawn across the bridge and the music rises into the night sky. It is far away and barely audible - but there it is! A pizzicato. Then a tremelo. The style is unmistakable. It is Sherlock Holmes who is playing. It must be. I hope with all my heart that he is playing for me . . .

When the doorbell rings at three in the morning, it's never good news.

McCain might have suffered hardships in his life, but what had happened to him had nothing to do with his background or his color; they were convenient excuses now. He had been a psychopath from the start.

I believe that, by and large, people are good and everybody you meet is more likely to surprise you in a positive way than in a negative way.

Nice day for a funeral.