The whole organization seemed to be in free fall, indulging in a collective fantasy in which experienced colleagues refused to admit that their every movement, every decision that was made and implemented, only led them one step closer to the abyss.

As the situation developed, the futility of attempting suicide in the middle of a hospital became apparent.

Mimi was massaging Salander's back and neck. She had been kneading intently for 20 minutes while Salander mainly enjoyed herself and uttered an occasional groan of pleasure. A massage from Mimi was a fantastic experience, and she felt like a kitten who just wanted to purr and wave its paws around.

It did no good to cry, she had learned that early on. She had also learned that every time she tried to make someone aware of something in her life, the situation just got worse. Consequently it was up to her to solve her problems by herself, using whatever methods she deemed necessary.

Writing detective stories is about writing light literature, for entertainment. It isn't primarily a question of writing propaganda or classical literature.

Men who just call to say hello generally have ulterior motives.

Her voice was as rough as sandpaper. As long as Blomkvist lived, he would never forget her face as she went on the attack. Her teeth were bared like a beast of prey. Her eyes were glittering, black as coal. She moved with the lightning speed of a tarantula and seemed totally focus on her prey as she swung the club again, striking Martin in the ribs.