Shutter Island

by Dennis Lehane

She said once that 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.

We were supposed to grow old together, Dolores. Have kids. Take walks under old trees. I wanted to watch the lines etch themselves into your flesh and know when each and every one of them appeared. Die together. Not this. Not this.

The world’s going to blow up and I don’t even know why.”

How much violence, Marshal, do you think a man can carry before it breaks him?

How am I supposed to let you go, that’s all I’m asking. I want to hold you again, smell you, and, yes too, I just want you to fade. To please, please fade

For this piece of paper. For Teddy.

SCREAMING CHUCK NO

“They’re creating ghosts here, Marshal. Ghosts to go out into the world and do ghostly work.”

smile. “Marshal,” she said, “you have no friends.”

Chuck bad?? Chuck good?? Chuck??

I know you. I’ve known you my whole life. I’ve been waiting. Waiting for you to make an appearance. Waiting all these years. I knew you in the womb.