Quotes from Harlan Coben

We are nothing. Man. Nothing. Yet we feel as though we are special. We think we matter or that God considers us his favorites. What a laugh.

When they were alone, Linda Coldren began to pace the room. Myron was again awed by her looks—the paradoxical combination of beauty, strength, and now delicacy. The strong, toned arms, yet the long, slender neck. The harsh, pointed features, yet the soft indigo eyes. Myron had heard beauty described as "seamless"; hers was quite the opposite.

But they also were on some base level congenitally brave. There was a selflessness within them, a purity of action.

Sense what?" "You're damaged goods." "Gee, thanks." She shrugged. "Some men carry torches for old loves, and then some guys—not many, but some—get completely consumed by the torch's flames. It makes them nothing but long-term trouble for the follow-ups." I

revealing a line of chest hair long enough for a curling iron.

Every home is its own independent country.

Flair Hickory, celebrity counsel for the defense, stood, and not for the first time, Wendy wondered how Dan Mercer had the money to afford him. Flair wore his customary gray suit with thick pink stripes, pink shirt, pink tie. He crossed the room in a way that might be modestly described as "theatrical," but it was more like something Liberace might have done if Liberace had the courage to be really flamboyant. "Ms.

But I know my truth.

I once worked as a tour guide in the Costa del Sol of Spain.

Trust is like that. You can break it for a good reason. But it still remains broken.

The ugliest truth, in the end, was still better than the prettiest of lies.

Years fly by, but the heart stays in the same place.

Outlining is not writing. Coming up with ideas is not writing. Researching is not writing. Creating characters is not writing. Only writing is writing.

That's what a good crime novelist - any good novelist - should do with you: play with your perceptions while showing you everything in plain sight.

I always think the insecurity is going to go away, but it's always there. Only bad writers think they're good.

Her assistant was a young woman named Chamique Johnson. Muse had met Chamique during a somewhat famous rape trial. After a rough start in the office, Chamique had made herself fairly indispensable. "Right

Clarence Morrow and Frank Tremont, along with a few local cops, were nearby. They were surreptitiously checking around. There was still faint hope that maybe Guy Novak had kidnapped Reba Cordova and was holding her here, but as the seconds passed, that seemed less and less likely. Guy

Do not look into that too deeply. I do not fear commitment. I just have no interest in it. I

Facts don't care about your feelings.

I can order in Chinese, if you'd like." She

Del didn't know, but in the end, he didn't care about thin lines and all that she-said, he-said stuff.

Exposed wires crisscrossed the ceiling, looking like central casting for a fire hazard. I followed Berleand down a corridor. We passed a microwave oven sitting on the floor. There were printers and monitors and computers lining the walls.

The food is farm to table, though when you order eggs, I'm not sure what other route they'd go.

Adam kept his body close. He wrapped the gunman up in a bear hug, his momentum still pushing him forward. They fell hard on the concrete, forcing Adam to let go. The gunman took advantage of the moment. He connected with an elbow to Adam's head. The stars came back. So did the nearly paralyzing pain. Nearly paralyzing. The