There is no murder. We make murder, and it matters only to us.

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.

Hannibal Lecter: We live in a primitive time - don't we, Will? - neither savage nor wise. Half measures are the curse of it. Any rational society would either kill me or give me my books.

I have no interest in understanding sheep, only eating them.

Gratitude’s got a short half-life, Clarice.

Typhoid and swans - it all comes from the same place.

Life's too slippery for books, Clarice; anger appears as lust, lupus presents as hives.