Write," he said. "I'll write to you as soon as I get there," answered Julian. "No. Not to me. Write books. Not letters. Write them for me, for Penelope.

The rain was still crashing down, angrily machine-gunning the large windows; it poured through the gutters up in the tower and funneled along the flat roof, sounding like footsteps on the ceiling.

She was seventeen, her entire life shining on her lips.

Death does that: it makes everyone feel sentimental. When we stand in front of a coffin, we all see only what is good or what we want to see.

Never trust he who trusts everyone.

A good liar knows that the most efficient lie is always a truth that has had a key piece removed from it.

... deep down nobody is bad, only frightened.