You are a cynical man, Mr. Pleasant." "We live in cynical times, Miss Cain.

Because I’m an English ninja,” Tanith replied. “We’re just like regular ninjas, except we wear leather and flirt more.

You have an amazing ability to depress me sometimes, you know that?" "I try my best.

Fletcher appeared beside her. He peered at the baby. "Can it do any tricks yet?" "I'm still working on it. Want to hold her?" "God, no," Fletcher said laughing. "I'd drop it." "It's not an it, it's my baby sister. Go on, hold her. You won't make a mess of it, i swear. Only an idiot could drop a baby." "You always say I am an idiot." "But you're a special kind of idiot. Here." She passed Alice into his arms, and he stood there, rigid, a look of intense concentration on his face.

Talking about one's feelings defeats the purpose of having those feelings. Once you try to put the human experience into words, it becomes little more than a spectator sport. Everything must have a cause, and a name. Every random thought must have a root in something else.

Suddenly Saracen Rue looked old and tired, and Skulduggery Pleasant came into focus as what he really was – a genius, a killer, a tortured soul, and the only true dead man among them.

And then the Necromancers pulled out their sub-atomic machine guns.