Edgar Cantero Quotes

This silence here was somewhat heavier, lonelier than the preceding one. The former was an elevator silence; this one was a walking-through-the-woods-by-night silence.

No book is dangerous in and of itself, you know. But historically, reading a book in the wrong way has led to terrible consequences.

This was different. It had synths droning and sending saltwater waves under my feet. It had drumbeats bursting like fireworks, rumbling the furniture out of place, and then a crazy, irregular, disharmonious, spiral crescendo of pure electric noise, like a typhoon dragging our bodies into it. It featured brass orchestras and choirs of mermaids and a piano in Iceland, all of them right there, visible, touchable, in Axton House. It shook us, fucked us, suspended us far above the reach of Help bouncing on his hind legs. It spoke of magenta sunsets and plastic patio chairs growing moss under summer storms rolling on caterpillar tracks. It sprinkled a bokeh of car lights rushing through night highways and slapped our faces like the wind at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. It pictured Niamh playing guitar, washed up naked on a beach in Fiji.

Tim curled up in a corner of the backseat, sheltering his penguin from the storm, all tensed up in "scandalized Maggie Smith" pose.

Peter sat as powerless as an overwhelmed female character in a Victorian drama.

"What?" The italics just flew out past the alcohol's guard.

all those pathetic lonely people fooling one another into their clumsy games of afterlife and cosmic relevance just to avoid noticing the nauseating sadness of their real lives.

It was the chuckle of ultimate truth, the smile of an actress right after the director says cut, the intimate joy of seeing the other's soul naked and acknowledging yours is naked too.

And the sad truth is, I want to be all those people. I'd sooner die forked a thousand times in that house than wake up to a world without monsters or goddesses. I'd rather play the monster myself.

The dead cannot give orders; they can only whisper.

They walked out into the first morning after the apocalypse - a day that had just barged in sweaty and unkempt like a late commuter, asking, Anything happen while I was out?

Andy kicked her way in, moonlit and angerstruck, doors shattering the decoration behind as she shouted at the shocked furniture: "Blyton Summer Fucking Detective Club! Anybody home?" Kerri and Nate came to flank her right after, rifles aimed at the horrified haunted house. Tim scurried between them, promenaded across the hall, stopped by a decorative suit of armor, and peed on it.