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He was brilliant—but a moral vacuum.
Buckett took out his wallet and showed me a picture of a dribbling infant that looked like every other dribbling infant I had ever seen.
“And what would you prefer? The forces of good and evil fighting to the death in the corridors of Thornfield Hall?”
I was born on a Thursday, hence the name. My brother was born on a Monday and they called him Anton—go figure.
“Let me know if you change your mind, darling,” she said. “Your room is the same as it always was.” If that were true the dreadful posters of my late teenage crushes would still be up on the wall. It was a thought too hideous to contemplate.
“Good evening,” said the barman. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” “Because Poe wrote on both?” “Very good.” He laughed.
“How long since I died?” he asked abruptly. “Over a hundred and fifty years.” “Really? Tell me, how did the revolution in France turn out?” “It’s a little early to tell.”
I know this is an old cliché but it’s true: The first casualty of war is always truth.
“Is that hard to believe?” “Perhaps not. The White Queen used to believe six impossible things before breakfast and it didn’t seem to do her any harm.
“Whenever people say: ‘I hope I won’t regret this,’ they do.
Maybe those sorts of yes-or-no life-and-death decisions are easier to make because they are so black and white. I can cope with them because it’s easier. Human emotions, well . . . they’re just a fathomless collection of grays and I don’t do so well on the midtones.”
