I'm doing one of three things: I'm writing. I'm staring out the window. Or I'm writhing on the floor.

But the face on the pillow, rosy in the firelight, is certainly that of Clarice Starling, and she sleeps deeply, sweetly, in the silence of the lambs.

The advantage of beating a mute is he can't tell on you.

I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti

Hannibal at eighteen was rooting for Mephistopheles and contemptuous of Faust, but he only half-listened to the climax. He was watching and breathing Lady Murasaki...

I found, and find, the scrutiny of Dr. Lecter uncomfortable, intrusive, like the humming of your thoughts when they x-ray your head.

Back at his chair he cannot remember what he was reading. He feels the books beside him to find the one that is warm.