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Kindle Notes & Highlights
Having someone care about you makes you want to give a shit, especially if you’re having trouble caring about yourself.
“Poe’s narrators are always drama queens.
“Can you—can you imagine? Is that pessimism? Is that—what is that?” And her mother said, “It’s a ritual. A rite. A motion to go through simply to move.”
Think like a romantic, theatrical lunatic.
A broken heart hurt like hell, but it kept beating. A lost mind was something else entirely.
“I knew it was you. I could tell right away; no one else uses that many semicolons.”
Hey DICK!” he said, laughing (because apparently even grown men found the word “dick” hilarious in any context)—and
“It’s good to know my mental illness has managed to retain her adolescent sense of humor.”
He was never in more danger than when he allowed himself to be most himself. When he was most himself, he ran the constant risk of being entirely Too Much.
Ms. Parkman, you’re here because you know the house’s history. I’m here because I’m good at organizing people, getting them to work toward a goal. Lisa’s here because she’s a horse’s ass.”
She could understand why someone would close up their house and push the whole world away. Sometimes the whole world hurt.
The odds of a natural death leading to interment in a secret well seemed low. Besides, murder was easy.
