“She's put him out like a cat a million times, but like a cat he has a habit of slinking back and curling up into the warm corners of her mind.” MenCats Book:Himself Source: Himself
“Sir Edmund is a collector, an insatiable, relentless collector, with an interest in anomalies and mutations, aberrations and malformations of life in or around the realm of water. If it swims or paddles or blows bubbles in any way oddly, then he'll have it killed, stuffed, or put in a jar, and brought to his private library.” ObsessionCollectors Book:Things in Jars Source: Things in Jars
“For this is their parting: as sudden and slow, surprising and foreseen as any parting. Between together and apart: an eyeblink and all of eternity.” LossGoodbyes Book:Things in Jars Source: Things in Jars
“It is the smell of a million mould-blossomed pages, of a thousand decaying bindings, of a universe of dead words.” BooksWordsDecayMoldSmell Of Books Book:Himself Source: Himself
“The wind grabbed a handful of sand and scattered it like bright confetti along the hard-packed, sea-scoured, deserted beach. The sky had a newly rinsed look, the clouds spun and wrung out on high.” SeaSkyOcean Book:Mr. Flood's Last Resort Source: Mr. Flood's Last Resort
“For the dead are always close by in a life like Mahony's. The dead are drawn to the confused and the unwritten, the damaged and the fractured, to those with big cracks and gaps in their tales, which the dead just yearn to fill. For the dead have secondhand stories to share with you, if you'd only let them get a foot in the door.” StoriesDeathTalesConfusedUnwrittenDamagedThe DeadFrancis SweeneyMahonySecondhand Stories Book:Himself Source: Himself
“Once upon a time Sister Mary Margaret had answered a loud knocking at the door of the orphanage. It was very early one morning, before the city was awake. All the pigeons had their heads tucked under their wings and all the rats were curled up tight behind the dustbins. All the cars and lorries were asleep in their garages and depots, and all the trains slumbered on their tracks at Connolly Station. All the boats bobbed gently in the harbor, dreaming of the high seas, and all the bicycles slept leaning along the fences. Even the angels were asleep at the foot of the O’Connell Monument, fluttering their wings as they dreamt, quite forgetting to hold still and pretend to be statues.” SleepMorningWingsAngelsStatuesOconnell Monument Book:Himself Source: Himself