The Running Grave (Cormoran Strike, #7)

by Robert Galbraith

Truth, to Strike, was sacrosanct. Justice was the only other value he held as high.

His one unfailing refuge and distraction

in times of trouble, ever since he could remember, had been to detangle and unravel, to try and impose order on the chaotic world, to resolve mysteries, to scratch his persistent itch for truth.

He might not believe, but the cross meant something to him, nonetheless. It stood for Ted and Joan, for order and stability, but also for the unknowable and unresolvable, for the human

craving for meaning in chaos, and for the hope of something beyond the world of pain and endless striving.

If he was lucky, he had half his life to live again, and it was time to give up things far more harmful than smoking and chips, time to admit to himself he should seek something new, as opposed to what was damaging but familiar.

Aeschylus at her. “Happiness is a choice that requires effort at times.”

we’ve got to forgive who we were, when we didn’t know any better. I did the same thing, with Matthew. I did exactly that.