Quotes from Robert Galbraith

We aren't our mistakes. It's what we do about the mistake that shows who we are.

Lightning doesn't strike twice.

In spite of her plainness that would have made wallflowers of other women, she radiated a great sense of self-importance.

Life had taught him that a great and powerful love could be felt for the most apparently unworthy people, a circumstance that ought, after all, to give everybody consolation.

Fancourt can't write women,' said Nina dismissively. 'He tries but he can't do it. His women are all temper, tits and tampons.

I am become a name.

But the lies she told were woven into the fabric of her being, her life; so that to live with her and love her was to become slowly enmeshed by them, to wrestle her for the truth, to struggle to maintain foothold on reality.

It was a glorious thing, to be given hope, when all had seemed lost.

Those who did not know the ocean well forgot its solidity, its brutality.

One mellows almost without realizing it's a compensation of age, because anger is exhausting.

Strike had always marvelled at the strange sanctity conferred upon celebrities by the public, even while the newspapers denigrated, hunted or hounded them. No matter how many famous people were convicted of rape or murder, still the belief persisted, almost pagan in its intensity: not him. It couldn't be him. He's famous.

Other people his age had houses and washing machines, cars and television sets, furniture and gardens and mountain bikes and lawnmowers: he had four boxes of crap, and a set of matchless memories.

Forever encased in the amber of a writer's prose.

it was weird. Would you believe it if some supermodel called you up and told you she was your sister?' Strike thought of his own bizarre family history. 'Probably,' he said.

Suicides, in his experience, were perfectly capable of feigning an interest in a future they had no intention of inhabiting.

How often were you aware, while it happened, that you were living an hour that would change the course of your life forever?

Sense entered into a short, violent skirmish with instinct and inclination, and was overwhelmed.

Every married person he knew seemed desperate to chivvy others into matrimony, no matter how poor an advertisement they themselves were for the institution.

Men looked so tragic when they cried.

You can't plot murder like a novel. There are always loose ends in real life.

But they had already tried, again and again and again, and always, when the first crashing wave of mutual longing subsided, the ugly wreck of the past lay revealed again, its shadow lying darkly over everything they tried to rebuild.

People do kill themselves, you know, Miranda, when they think their whole reason for living is being taken away from them. Even the fact that other people think their suffering is a joke isn't enough to shake them out of it.

He was not a man who told himself comfortable lies.

As always, he found her better-looking in the flesh than in the memory he had of her when not present.