...she made her home in between the pages of books.

Not all. Some of them he probably lectured to death.

We are shoulder to shoulder due to the size of the cab, and if Gratton is made of flour and potatoes, Sean is made of stone and driftwood and possibly those prickly anemones that sometimes wash up on shore.

People don't change who they are. They only change what they do with it.

There doesn't seem like there should be an artful way to butcher a cow, but there is, and this is not it.

The walls of the arch are covered with blood-red jellies that wink and glisten at me by the light of the moon. My father told me they were completely harmless. I don't believe him. Nothing is completely harmless.

The journal and Gansey were clearly long acquainted, and he wanted her to know. This is me. The real me.