The surprise with which a detective novel concludes should set up tragic vibrations which run backward through the entire structure. — Ross Macdonald Copy Share Image
The walls of books around him, dense with the past, formed a kind of insulation against the present world of disasters. — Ross Macdonald Copy Share Image
The walls were lined with books, many of them in foreign languages, like insulation against the immediate present. — Ross Macdonald Copy Share Image
“The sea was surging among the pilings like the blithe mindless forces of dissolution.” — Ross Macdonald Copy Share Image
I knew how it was with drunks. They ran out of generosity, even for themselves. — Ross MacDonald Copy Share Image
“She didn't look like any motel manager I had ever seen. More likely an actress who hadn't quite made the grade down south, or… — Ross Macdonald Copy Share Image
“In wine was truth, perhaps, but in whisky, the way Hoffman sluiced it down, was an army of imaginary rats climbing your legs.” — Ross Macdonald Copy Share Image
“A cockroach stepped out from behind the ketchup, gave me a quick impassive once-over, decided that I was of the Brahmin faith, and walked… — Ross Macdonald Copy Share Image
I have a secret passion for mercy. . . but justice is what keeps happening to people. — Ross Macdonald Copy Share Image
“I found myself wishing that we could live like the birds and move through nature without hurting it ourselves.” — Ross Macdonald Copy Share Image
I like a little danger. Tame danger, controlled by me. It gives me a sense of power, I guess, to take my life in… — Ross Macdonald Copy Share Image
