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.

One can only see what one observes, and one observes only things which are already in the mind.

Intense fear comes in waves; the body can't stand it for long at a time.

It occured to Starling how much Roden would benefit from an elbow smash in the hinge of his jaw.

Lecter is so lucid, so perceptive; he's trained in psychiatry... and he's a mass murderer.

Shiloh isn’t haunted – men are haunted. Shiloh doesn’t care.