Inanimate objects are harmless indeed, Mr. Mortmain. But one cannot always say the same of the men who use them.

I learned to share work with people even when it was in its rough stages without worrying that they'd be filled with scorn and hatred. After all, I can read their rough work without turning on them like a wildebeest.

Well, why did you kill Jeremiah? And don't bother feeding me some story about how you just happened to wander along after he spontaneously died. I know you did this.

Remember when you fell out of that tree on the farm when you were ten, and broke your arm? Remember how he made them let him ride with you in the ambulance on the way to the hospital? He kicked and yelled till they gave in.” “You laughed,” said Clary, remembering, “and my mom hit you in the shoulder.” “It was hard not to laugh. Determination like that in a 10-year-old is something to see. He was like a pit bull.” “If pit bulls wore glasses and were allergic to ragweed.” -Luke and Clary talking about Simon, pg.211-

You may be right. I think it was round about Christmas when I got my Welsh dragon tattoo.” At that, Tessa had to try very hard not to blush. “How did that happen?” Will made an airy gesture with his hand. “I was drunk…” “Nonsense. You were never really drunk.” “On the contrary—in order to learn how to pretend to be inebriated, once must become inebriated at least once, as a reference point. Six-Fingered Nigel had been at the mulled cider—“ “You can’t mean there’s truly a Six-Fingered Nigel?

There was an electric anger in his gaze, and a sort of challenge that made Simon long to hit him with something heavy. Like a pickup truck.

A patient, methodical sort of madman. The worst kind.