We writers, as we work our way deeper into our craft, learn to drop more and more personal clues. Like burglars who secretly wish to be caught, we leave our fingerprints on broken locks, our voiceprints in bugged rooms, our footprints in the wet concrete.
Ross MacdonaldThe walls of books around him, dense with the past, formed a kind of insulation against the present world of disasters.
Ross MacdonaldI found myself wishing that we could live like the birds and move through nature without hurting it our ourselves.
Ross MacdonaldWe're all in the game. We all drive cars, and we're all hooked on oil. The question is how we can get unhooked before we drown in the stuff.
Ross MacdonaldThe walls were lined with books, many of them in foreign languages, like insulation against the immediate present.
Ross MacdonaldI have a secret passion for mercy. . . but justice is what keeps happening to people.
Ross MacdonaldFreud was one of the greatest influences on me. He made myth into psychiatry, and I've been trying to turn it back into myth again.
Ross MacdonaldI used to think the world was divided into good people and bad people, that you could pin responsibility for evil on certain definite people and punish the guilty. Iām still going through the motions.
Ross MacdonaldThe surprise with which a detective novel concludes should set up tragic vibrations which run backward through the entire structure.
Ross MacdonaldWhen there's trouble in a family, it tends to show up in the weakest member. And all the other members of the family know that. They make allowances for the one in trouble.
Ross MacdonaldAs a man gets older, if he knows what is good for him,, the women he likes are getting older too. The trouble is that most of them are married.
Ross MacdonaldThere are certain families whose members should all live in different towns - different states, if possible - and write each other letters once a year.
Ross MacdonaldThe smell of the sea, of kelp and fish and bitter moving water, rose stronger in my nostrils. It flooded my consciousness like an ancestral memory. The swells rose sluggishly and fell away, casting up dismal gleams between the boards of the pier. And the whole pier rose and fell in stiff and creaking mimicry, dancing its long slow dance of dissolution. I reached the end and saw no one, heard nothing but my footsteps and the creak of the beams, the slap of waves on the pilings. It was a fifteen-foot drop to the dim water. The nearest land ahead of me was Hawaii.
Ross Macdonald