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He had quite liked the dwarfs. He often had no idea what they were talking about, but for a group of homicidal, class-obsessed small people, they were really rather good fun.

John Connolly

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John Connolly
Age: 56
Born: 1968
Born: January 1
Journalist
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Dublin city
John Conolly
Good
Small
Homicidal
People
Class
Dwarfs
Talking
Obsessed
Rather
Liked
Idea
Group
Often
Groups
Ideas
Fun
Really
Quite

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Why is there always one bloke in these boy bands who looks like he came to fix the boiler and somehow got bullied into joining the group?
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Without a human voice to read them aloud, or a pair of wide eyes following them by flashlight beneath a blanket, they had no real existence in our world. They were like seeds in the beak of a bird, waiting to fall to earth, or the notes of a song laid out on a sheet, yearning for an instrument to bring their music into being.
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You can't prove that something doesn't exist. You can only prove that something does exist.
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Luck ran out, but smart was for life.
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Sarge, mr. Nurd here is threatening to turn me to jelly. really? said Sarge. what flavor?
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My feelings for Raphael are mine, and mine alone. I loved him, and that is all anyone needs to know. The rest is no business of any man's.
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a technician who uses the term “glitch” is like a Doctor who tells you you’re suffering from a “thingy,” except the doctor won’t tell you to go home and try turning yourself on and off again.
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I don't think, he said, that a vicar is supposed to beat a bishop to death, or even back to death. Mr. Berkeley looked down upon the remains of Bishop Bernard. If anyone asks, we'll say he fell over, he said. Lots of times.
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...it was imaginative people who tended to lie. Lying required making stuff up, and only imaginative people were good at that.
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Here is a truth, a truth by which to live: there is hope. There is always hope. If we choose to abandon it, our souls will turn to ash and blow away.
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I'd been hurt, and in response I had acted violently, destroying a little of myself each time I did so.
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He became merely the broken statue of a beast, now without another's fear to animate it.
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This world is full of broken things: broken hearts, broken promises, broken people.
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Each man dreams his own heaven.
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We all have our routines, he said softly.But they must have a purpose and provide an outcome that we can see and take some comfort from, or else they have no use at all. Without that, they are like the endless pacings of a caged animal. If they are not madness itself, then they are a prelude to it.
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. . . For a lifetime was but a moment in that place, and each man dreams his own heaven. And in the darkness David closed his eyes, as all that was lost was found again.
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I thought it was her wicked stepmother who poisoned her...' '...Turned out the wicked stepmother had an alibi.' '...Seems she was off poisoning someone else at the time. Chance in a million, really. It was just bad luck.
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You had evil inside you, and you indulged it. Men will always indulge it.
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She was plump, with dyed red hair and a face so caked with cosmetics that the floor of the Amazon jungle probably saw more natural light.
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The US dollar is our currency but your problem.
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