Claire Dewitt And The Bohemian Highway: A Mystery (Claire DeWitt Novels Book 2)

by Sara Gran

“Karma,” he said once, “is not a sentence already printed. It is a

series of words the author can arrange as she chooses.”

We all want to be someone else. And sometimes we succeed

convincing ourselves we can be. But it doesn’t last, and our own true selves, broken and scarred, always win out in the end.

On the other hand, a pretty girl is always the object, never the subject.

San Francisco was, like New Orleans or Brooklyn, smugly proud of its local celebrities.

According to one school of thought we were in the Kali Yuga, a long stretch of time that might be as short as a hundred thousand years or as long as a million, depending on who you asked.

Death and solid food don’t mix.

The law was for people who needed instructions, she would later tell me. The same people who needed to be told not to put a baby in the dryer or a

dog in the microwave.

I didn’t understand at the time that by killing them I’d bound myself to them for life. This life and more to come.

When you love something so much, the thought of doing it but not doing it well hurts almost more than never trying. Almost. You wouldn’t know until you tried it that failing is actually better.

If you hate yourself enough, you’ll start to hate anyone who reminds you of you. And if you stick with it, you’ll come to hate anyone who doesn’t see how just awful you are.

“Happiness,” Silette wrote, “is the temporary result

of denying the knowledge one already has.”

White people use cocaine more than any other race,

Maybe out of everything I thought I knew, there was nothing I was more wrong about than my own life story.

There are no coincidences. Only doors you didn’t have the courage to walk through. Only blind spots you weren’t brave enough to see. Only tones you refused to admit you could hear.