Robert Galbraith Quotes

I’m totally serious. Look it up on the net. When women turn, they really turn.

Clues from chaos, sense from madness.

She thought it might be the very first time that Strike had ever given any indication that he saw her as a woman, and she silently filed away the exchange to pore over later, in solitude.

There were friends all over London who would welcome his eagerly to their homes, who would throw open their guest rooms and their fridges, eager to condole and to help. The price of all of those comfortable beds and home-cooked meals, however, would be to sit at kitchen tables, once the clean-pajamaed children were in bed, and relive the filthy final battle with Charlotte, submitting to the outraged sympathy and pity of his friends' girlfriends and wives. To this he preferred grim solitude, a Pot Noodle and a sleeping bag.

He had an innate dislike of scheduled celebration and forced jollity, and of all inane practices, having ‘Happy Birthday’ sung to him was one of his least favourites.

Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve loved anyone, since, like you loved me.”
“No, I haven’t,” he said, “and thank fuck for that.

I was in therapy for a bit. Now I do CBT exercises.” “Do you, though?” Strike asked mildly. “Because I bought vegetarian bacon a week ago, but it’s not making me any healthier, just sitting there in the fridge.

Happy birthday, this isn't your real present,
you'll get that later. (Not flowers)
Love Strike x

He’s the turd that won’t flush,” as Strike put it to Lucy,

she knew I was in love with you.

Frankly, anybody who's going to kill themselves because of a bad review has no business writing a novel in the first place.

Neither of them could tell who had made the first move, or whether they acted in unison. They were holding each other tightly before they knew what happened, Robin's chin on Strike's shoulder, his face in her hair. He smelled of sweat, beer and surgical spirits, she, of roses and the faint perfume that he had missed when she was no longer in the office. The feel of her was both new and familiar, as though he had held her a long time ago, as though he had missed it without knowing it for year. Through the closed door upstairs the band playing on:

I'll go wherever you will go
If I could make you mine ...

Strike looked down at his own plate: where there should have been chips, there was only salad.

For all his determination to keep her at arm's length, they had literally leaned on each other. He could remember exactly what it felt like to have his arm around her waist as they had meandered towards Hazlitt's Hotel. She was tall enough to hold easily. He had never fancied very small women.

Matthew would not like this, she had said.

He would have liked it even less had he known how much Strike had liked it.