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I love a big, character-rich story with a dark heart, with a compelling mystery or some kind of ticking clock at its center. I want to be lured in by prose, captured by character, and bound by stellar plotting to keep turning the pages.
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You can cut the ties that bind but not without losing a part of yourself. You can walk away and hide from the people who made you, but you'll always hear them calling your name.
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Even if someone is overcome with rage, it takes amazing arrogance to kill.
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The truth has not so much set us free as it has ripped away a carefully constructed facade, leaving us naked to begin again.
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We can't hold on to anyone or anything, you know. We lose everything except that which we carry within us.
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And we stood like that. The joining of hands is highly underrated in the acts of intimacy. You kiss acquaintances or colleagues, casually to say hello or good-bye. You might even kiss a close friend chastely on the lips. You might quickly hug anyone you knew. You might even meet someone at a party, take him home and sleep with him, never to see him or hear from him again. But to join hands and stand holding each other that way, with the electricity of possibilities flowing between you? The tenderness of it, the promise of it, is only something you share with a few people in your life.
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There have been plenty of chances to close my eyes and go back to the sleep of my life as it was, but I hadn't taken any of them. Do I wish now that I had? It's hard to answer that question, as the wraiths move closer.
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I loved him so much. It didn't change all the reasons we couldn't be together, but it kept me returning to his body, kept my skin seeking his skin over and over again in the sad dance we did.
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The woman I was seems hopelessly naive. I envy her.
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The past is history. The future is a mystery. The present is a gift.
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In the end, I cared about him so much that I just thought he deserved someone who loved him more than I did.
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There's nothing particularly dark in my past... I live in the light. My disposition is basically happy. I have a good life.
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Denial: my family heritage. If you don't ask the questions, the truth will never inconvenience you.
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People who stay in the same town with the same friends for their entire lives never get a chance to find out who they can really be, because they will always be considered as who they were.
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It's strange how memory gets twisted and pulled like taffy in its retelling, how a single event can mean something different to everyone present.
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Once you've started down that road to self-discovery, no matter how treacherous the path before you, you can't turn back. The universe doesn't allow it.
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Hope is good. Without it, well, you do the math. But hope has to be like a prayer. Putting it out there to something more powerful than yourself.
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Anyone who used the word hip probably wasn't.
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I definitely feel that plot flows from character. I don't believe that you can construct a plot and insert people into it.
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When you're young it's easy to confuse passion for love.
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I'm a 'bound book' kind of girl. I have a Kindle, and I enjoy it for some things, like convenience or instant gratification, or all the little things that you can do with them.
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Michael Koryta is that rare author who is at once a compelling story teller and a fantastic writer. From the first sentence of THOSE WHO WISH ME DEAD, you'll be under his spell. His characters are living, breathing people you'll care about; his setting is a place you'll visit and stay-long after you've decided to leave because you're scared. You can't leave; you're trapped. There are too many nerve-jangling, beautifully written, razor sharp moments and you won't want to miss a single one. This is an absolute sizzler.
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You cannot hope for change in others, you can only work toward it in yourself. And that's hard work.
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'In Cold Blood' is not a thriller at all, really. It is, however, the first work of its kind: a true crime book that reads like fiction.