Quotes from Harlan Coben

Simon collapsed into a seat on the subway. He stared out the window across the car without focusing, letting the underground whiz by in a hazy blur. He tried to comprehend what he'd just learned. Nothing made sense. He'd gotten more pieces to the puzzle, important pieces, perhaps even an explanation of what had started his daughter's spiral into drug addiction. But the more pieces he got, the less clear the final image was becoming.

A permanent companion. You may run a few steps ahead, but that day is always there, tapping you on the shoulder, pulling at your sleeve.

We want to make people consistent and predictable and simple, but they never are.

Buddy Ray just smiled at me. If the cracked teeth or blood was bothering him, he didn't show it. The smile had nothing behind it. No mirth, no joy, no soul. It was the scariest smile I had ever seen. "The

Our whole relationship did have that unreal quality to it, both of us away from our regular lives and all the mundanity that goes along with that.

The outer stairs and walkway terraces were made of rotting wood. The cement walls had that unfinished, swirling look that could cut your hand if you leaned against it wrong. Small chunks of concrete lay on the ground. An unplugged Pepsi machine guarded the door like one of the Queen's guards.

Norm looked out over the court. The workers involved in the [model] shoot darted about like trapped particles under sudden heat.

He spoke with a funny maybe-Hungarian, maybe-Arabic accent, like something he made up for a comedy sketch. Anton was unshaven, the stubble on his face glistening in a not-pleasant way. He wore sunglasses even though it was cave-dark in here. "This

Two floors below them were the geneticists. One of them told Mike that in random population tests, more than ten percent of men were raising children that, unbeknownst to them, weren't biologically theirs. "Any

This neighborhood felt like a part of her. It felt as though some of her DNA was in the blue clapboards and off-white Cape Cods and cracked pavement and small patches of lawn, like she'd been beamed away à la Star Trek but a few of her particles got left behind. Part of her would always be at Thanksgiving at Uncle Tommy and Aunt Eileen's, sitting at the "kids' table," which was a Ping-Pong table with a king-size sheet doubling as a tablecloth.

Good time to fill me in," Cornelius said. So he did. "That's messed up," Cornelius said when he finished. "Yup." Then: "Why did you help us, Cornelius?" "Why not?" "I'm serious." "So am I. Not a lot of chances to be a hero in real life. You got to step up when the opportunity presents itself." Cornelius shrugged as if to emphasize it was a no-brainer and that simple, and Simon believed that maybe it was.

Hey, come on, Myron, that was just talk." Ned tried to smile his way out of it, but Myron kept his face stern. "It didn't mean anything.

I stood in a maze line formed by crushed-velvet ropes and waited my turn. It reminded me of visiting a bank in the days before ATMs. The woman in front of me sported a business suit—at midnight—and big enough bags under her eyes to be mistaken for a bellhop. Behind me, a man with curly hair and dark sweats whipped out a cell phone and started pressing buttons.

So I'm a hypocrite," Myron said. "Happy?" "But that is my point," Win said. "What?" "You're not a hypocrite. You aim toward lofty heights. The fact that your arrow cannot always reach them does not make you a hypocrite.

It was that simple and yet that deep.

Myron put the picture down. In the background, Betty Buckley was not singing "Memory," but maybe she should have been. These boxes were a life—a life that in spite of these experiences and dreams and wants and hopes had chosen to terminate itself. From

He was a rock star and an absolute major yummy, but he had a certain predilection." "That being?" "He liked underage girls." "He was a pedophile?" "No, I don't believe so. His targets were fully developed. But they were young. Sixteen, seventeen." Alista

Cingle was six feet tall with blue eyes and honey-colored hair. Her face was fairly attractive. Her body caused heart arrhythmia—a total, no-let-up traffic-stopper.

The storefront was a nail salon called Nail-R-Us in a not-yet-redeveloped section of Queens. The building had that decrepit thing going on, as if leaning against it would cause a wall to collapse. The rust on the fire escape was so thick that tetanus seemed a far greater threat than smoke inhalation. Every window was blocked by either a heavy shade or a plank of wood. The structure was four levels and ran almost the entire length of the block. Myron

The waitresses maneuvered through the boisterous crowd clad in black dresses, bright lipstick, slicked-back hair, and nearly Kabuki whiteface. Guitars hung from around their necks. They were supposed to look like the models in that Robert Palmer "Addicted to Love" video except, well, they were rather, uh, more mature and less attractive. Like the video had been remade with the cast of The Golden Girls.

Mental illnesses are so strange. A physical problem we can understand. But when the mind works irrationally, well, by its very definition, the rational mind cannot truly relate. We can pity. But we cannot fully grasp.

Walking is, in fact, a tremendous bore. But I liked watching Chloe walk. I know that sounds queer, but a dog derives such pleasure from this simple activity. It made me Zen-happy to watch her. Back

Esperanza entered the Parker Inn. The first thing that hit her was the smell—a pungent combination of dried vomit and body odor, only less olfactorily pleasing. She wrinkled her nose and continued inside. The floor was hardwood with lots of sawdust. The light was dingy, coming off the pool table ceiling fixtures that were supposed to look like imitation Tiffany lamps. The crowd was probably two-to-one men over women. Everyone was dressed—in a word—cheesy. Esperanza

Beneath had his arm slung around a woman's neck. She had a dye job from the planet Bad Bottle and basically looked like the type of woman who might go for a tattoo-infested skinhead—or to say the same thing in a slightly different way, she looked like a regular on the Jerry Springer show. Both