Quotes from Joe Hill

What he felt was something larger than fear, a narcotic terror that numbed him completely, made it impossible to imagine moving.

Si algo tenía el diablo, era tiempo.

Minutes did not pass, collecting into hours. There was no point in thinking about time in the old way. There was only one moment and then another moment, in a string of moments that went on in a quiet, deadly procession.

But the desert offers something that no forest brook or valley ever can: distance. A

Max almost needed it to be true, for vampires to be real, because the other possibility- that their father was, and always had been, in the grip of a psychotic fantasy- was too awful, too overwhelming.

stared at the herd, and they stared back. One of them stood in profile to the house, half a ton of horse. The scars scrawled across his side looked like they might be a decade old, not a few hours, but for all that, they were quite distinct, in silver relief against his fine white hair. Hacked there in the horse's flesh were the words FUCK YOU. They whinnied together, the pack of them. It sounded like laughter.

Something that doesn't know it's alive obviously can't be expected to know when it's dead.

It'd be a mistake," Lee said. "I think maybe you have to make a few," Merrin said. "If you don't, you're probably thinking too much. That's the worst mistake you can make.

She would send me pictures of the sky, big blue western skies with little lumps of white cloud in them, and she'd write: The cloud in the middle is my pet unicorn. Or: That cloud over the mountains is you hiding under a sheet. Once she sent me a picture of a mountain pool, a cloud reflected in it as if it were a mile-wide mirror, and texted: I want to hold you like the water holds the sky.

Charlie Manx laughed, the big, hoarse hee-haw of a country shithead who has just heard a joke involving a kike, a nigger, and a feminist.

I can't say I was happy with your mother. I can't say I enjoyed almost twenty years of being judged by her and always found wanting.

This is the thing about my sister and I: we've never gotten along, even when we've gotten along. This is what happens when you have parents who fetishize family, and the viscosity of blood relative to water: you resent the force with which they push you together with this person who is, genetics aside, a stranger. And that's what my sister is: a stranger.

All those tattoos. A woman could get any tattoo she liked, but they all said the same thing. They were a sign reading AVAILABLE FOR RENT.

You know about women who work in bars." "What about them?" Bing asked. "Whores," Manx said. "Almost all of them. At least until their looks go, and in the case of Lily Carter's mother they're going fast.

Pensando bem — disse ela —, a maioria das coisas boas surgiu para facilitar o pecado.

Vic stared at her, incredulous. "What do you mean you don't know why?" Vic asked her. "He isn't coming home because of you, Mom. Because he can't stand you. Because all you ever do is bitch at him, stand there and bitch when he's tired and wants to be left alone.

There's something horribly unfair about dying in the middle of a good story, before you have a chance to see how it all comes out. Of course, I suppose everyonealways dies in the middle of a good story, in a sense. Your own story. Or the story of your children. Or your grandchildren. Death is a raw deal for narrative junkies.

His soul was a steeple in which all the bells had begun to clash at once.

Even if she got the messages, she's probably all "Oh man, Ursula's just having one of those days," which is something I overheard her telling our mother once, just because I was upset that she didn't want to be my maid of honor. Not that it mattered in the end, with the wedding being called off, but it was upsetting nonetheless. I'm so fucking tired.

Was anything in the world more heartrending than being found out by someone you wanted to love you?

Life was a good dream, but now I'm awake. Only demons cling to life after their time is up.

It's because she doesn't love being lonely. When a girl loses her virginity, though, it may hurt, but it's real. It might be the realest, most private thing you could ever see in another person. You wonder who she'll be in that moment, when you finally get past all the pretend.

In any random slaughter, the difference between living and dying rarely has anything to do with willpower, or wisdom, or pluck. It's just a matter of where you're standing. Two inches to the right, and the bus hits you. If your office is on the ninety-second floor instead of the ninetieth, you don't make it out in time.

He remembered buying them for her. The two of them together at the farmers' market, wandering from stall to stall, buying bread rounds still warm from baking and bags of vegetables still thick with dirt and leaves. The way she managed to look at every display, ferreted out everything interesting, made people smile as she talked to them.