Forever encased in the amber of a writer's prose. - Robert Galbraith

There’s people who’d expect you to take a bullet for them and they don’t bother rememb’ring yuh name.

We don’t love each other; we love the idea we have of each other. Very few humans understand this or can bear to contemplate it. They have blind faith in their own powers of creation. All love, ultimately, is self-love.

Seven and a half million hearts were beating in close proximity in this heaving old city, and many, after all, would be aching far worse than his.