We writers, as we work our way deeper into our craft, learn to drop more and more personal clues. Like burglars who secretly wish to be caught, we leave our fingerprints on broken locks, our voiceprints in bugged rooms, our… — 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
