Shutter Island

by Dennis Lehane

time is nothing to me but a series of bookmarks that I use to jump back and forth through the text of my life, returning again and again to the events that mark me, in the eyes of my more astute colleagues, as bearing all the characteristics of the classic melancholic.

I wanted to watch the lines etch themselves into your flesh and know when each and every one of them appeared. Die together.

Charm was the luxury of those who still believed in the essential rightness of things. In purity and picket fences.