Quotes from Susanna Moore

And although I wanted to think about him, it would have to wait until the next day, perhaps until I was on the subway, where I seem to have most of my more interesting thoughts.

How you doing?" he asked. "How's everything?" "Fine, thank you," I said, turning my bracelet on my wrist. I felt shy, and it made me uncomfortable. "You always say that," he said. "That's what I'm supposed to say.

I was suddenly afraid that if I seemed too upset or afraid, too crazy, he would stop.

I don't care what you do," Malloy said to me, "you can do anything you want, but if you ever tell anyone I eat frozen diet dinners, I'll kill you.

You like it. I probably wouldn't. I'm really only interested in my own behavior.

Most people think they're smarter than me," said Rodriguez. He winked at me. "And that's what gives me the edge.

I think memories are like dreams. Not reliable proof of anything. I can't prove a memory any more than I can prove a dream.

The belief that love is a finite essence that will eventually run out holds a certain logic for me even now, even if I am supposed to know better.

The trees in the park swayed and shuddered in anticipation, with delight or dread I do not know.

I know the sort of man who likes me. So I wondered, not for the first time, what secret I might possess, what magic charm or talisman had allowed me to get Malloy's attention in the first place. To get him to fuck me. I am not the kind of woman he likes.

The egg was too spinsterly-looking a snack, too lonely-seeming, and I did not want to be lectured about my diet. Or my loneliness.

I reminded myself that Pauline says they have to despise us in order to come near us, in order to overcome their terrible fear of us. She has some very romantic ideas.

My belated recognition of his desire actually served the purpose of provoking me to consider him, if only for a moment. It was like high school when just to hear that a boy liked you was sufficient encouragement to agree to go steady with him by the end of the day. Now that I think of it, it is just like life. Not high school.

I wanted to talk to him. To hear his dangerous voice, the voice that he used with women ('Hi, baby, how you doin'? Sittin' on the phone?' The 'hi' drawn out in a low, implicating whisper.) I wanted to hear the coldness that was so deep . . . That coldness of spirit that had made it so thrilling to get his attention.

It was as if he were daring me to look at him . . . and tell him what I saw.

I felt myself blush with disappointment. I looked away, afraid that they would see it.

He was silent. I waited, not knowing if he was asleep, men having the ability to fall asleep even when the conversation is about themselves.

We're detectives . . . We can do anything we want.

And there was still pleasure in it. A man who knew he could fuck.

What are you doing?" I whispered. Even though I knew. It was as if I had to pretend that I did not know what he was about to do to me.

I was thinking that everything had changed in an instant, changed in a way that neither he nor I might mind.

Well. I don't know where to start. What to say. What to think.

His sudden falling-away, his tentativeness, his loss of will, made me dislike him, and I realized that I was disappointed.

There was something different in his voice, as if he were hurrying me along, moving me past something before I saw it.