There is no murder. We make murder, and it matters only to us.
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...
You will not persuade me with appeals to my intellectual vanity.
Life's too slippery for books, Clarice; anger appears as lust, lupus presents as hives.
You cant reduce me to a set of influences.
Gratitude’s got a short half-life, Clarice.