Darkly Dreaming Dexter (Dexter, #1)

by Jeff Lindsay

I’m quite sure most people fake an awful lot of everyday human contact. I just fake all of it.

Anybody can be charming if they don’t mind faking it, saying all the stupid, obvious, nauseating things that a conscience keeps most people from saying. Happily, I don’t have a conscience. I say them.

And I didn’t want the cops to catch every serial killer out there. Then what would I do for a hobby?

Feeling. Me, feeling. What a concept.

If only I was capable of love, how I would have loved Harry.

I have a very high metabolism. It comes with living the good life.

Other people are less important to me than lawn furniture. I do not, as the shrinks put it so eloquently, have any sense of the reality of others. And I am not burdened with this realization.

‘It’s like, everything really is two ways, the way we all pretend it is and the way it really is. And you already know that and it’s like a game for you.’

He was in full hunting mode, and I was merely tagging along behind like an unwanted little brother.

How wonderful to have such an authentic human experience. Now I knew what it was like to feel like a total idiot.