Ian Rankin Quotes

This man had something to hide, some shame in his past, and those with a past can always be bought.

He felt his arms ache and, looking down, saw that the girl had stopped struggling. There came that point, that sudden, blissful point, when it was useless to go on living, and when the mind and body came to accept that such was the case. That was a beautiful, peaceful moment, the most relaxed moment of one's life.

Hardship bred a bitter, quickfire humour and resilience to all but the most terminal of life's tragedies.

You wouldn't think you could kill an ocean, would you? But we'll do it one day. That's how negligent we are.

I doubt he'd give me the smell from his farts - no, tell a lie: in that one respect he's being more than generous.

I'm interested in Scotland now and then, how it's changed. I want to get the reader to think about that by thinking about something from the past. How has society changed, how has policing changed, have we changed philosophically, psychologically, culturally, spiritually?

But you used to know a good thing when you saw it.

Trouble is, that's never what I see when I look in the mirror.

What do you see? He looked at her.

Sometimes I don't see anything at all.

Rebus reminded himself to stop praying. Perhaps if he stopped praying, God would take the hint and stop being such a bastard to one of his few believers on this near-godforsaken planet.

Often he declined invitations, because to accept meant that he had to dust off his brogues, iron a shirt, brush down his best suit, take a bath, and splash on some cologne. He had also to be affable, to drink and be merry, to talk to strangers with whom he had no inclination to talk and with whom he was not being paid to talk. In other words, he resented having to play the part of a normal human animal.

As usual, Vanderhyde's memory was sharp enough when it suited him. 'That's true. All the same, you were there.' 'Yes, I was. But I left several hours before the fire started. Not guilty, your honour.' 'Why were you there in the first place?' 'To meet a friend for a drink.' 'A seedy place for a drink.' 'Was it? You'll have to remember, Inspector, I couldn't see anything. It certainly didn't smell or feel particularly disreputable.' 'Point taken.' 'I had my memories. To me, it was the same old Central Hotel I'd lunched in and danced in. I quite enjoyed the evening.

There are worse forms of prostitution than whoring.
-Inspector John Rebus

I don't think I have one particular favourite writer. I have many whose works I will always buy or reread - Muriel Spark, Anthony Powell, Robert Louis Stevenson, Ruth Rendell, James Ellroy, William McIlvanney, Kate Atkinson, John Burnside, Louise Welsh, Iain Banks.

Everything you do from waking till sleeping is against somebody's Bible, Cafferty.

He'd tried to talk to you about anarchy yesterday but his English and your French conspired against the dialog.

That guy should be in porn films." Barclay frowned. "Why's that then, Allan?" Ward looked at him. "Tell me, Tam, when did you last see a bigger prick?

This was the winter of 2008/9. Work was ongoing to reinstate a tram system in the city. A lot of people couldn't see the point of trams and many more disliked the disruption. Streets were closed off. There was almost a sense of 'apartheid' as the roadworks made it difficult to move from New Town to Old Town and vice versa. Added to which, the weather was fairly grim. And the banks looked ready to implode.

I still think most writers are just kids who refuse to grow up. We're still playing imaginary games, with our imaginary friends.

You weren't kidding about the rolls," Rebus said, taking another bite.

"Bacon just the right side of crispy," Robert Chatham agreed.

They were seated across from one another at a booth with padded seats and a Formica-topped table. Mugs of dark-brown tea and plates in front of them, Radio Forth belting out from the kitchen.

Was still a fine, persistent drizzle. There was a word in Scots for it - smirr.

Bad Men Do What Good Men

Scotland is divided into several police regions. Rebus works for Lothian and Borders Police, whose "beat" covers Edinburgh and most points south until you reach the English border. The region's HQ is based at Fettes Avenue in Edinburgh, and is often referred to by officers as "the Big House." Other main police stations in the capital include St. Leonard's (where Rebus is normally based), Leith (the port of Edinburgh), Gayfield Square and West End. The officer in charge of this region is known as the chief constable. He is served, in decreasing order of rank, by a deputy chief constable (DCC), two assistant chief constables (ACCs), and various detective chief superintendents (DCSs),

The man nodded and brought a bottle from the glass-fronted fridge,

Fifteen years, and all he had to show were an amount of self-pity and a busted marriage with an innocent daughter hanging between them. It was more disgusting than sad.

Also, he was more discriminating now than he had been then, back in the old days when he would read a book to its bitter end whether he liked it or not. These days, a book he disliked was unlikely to last ten pages of his concentration.

I took the first James Kelman novel, 'The Bus Conductor Hines', home to my dad. I thought, 'My dad will like this; it's written in Scots.' But my dad said: 'I can't read that.' He was reading James Bond and John le Carre. That was part of what attracted me to crime - the idea of getting a wide audience.

They parked in a pay-bay on George Square and walked through the gardens, emerging in front of the university library. Most of the buildings here had gone up in the 1960s, and Rebus hated them: blocks of sand-colored concrete replacing the square's original eighteenth-century town houses. Rows of treacherous steps, and a notorious wind-tunnel effect which could blow over the unwary on the wrong day. Students walked between the buildings, hugging books and folders in front of them. Some stood and chatted in groups.
"Bloody students," was Wylie's concise summing-up of the situation.

He's as smooth as a fresh-laid turd and gives off the same smell.

Rebus nodded his understanding. The Murder Room was quiet when he reached it. Roy Frazer was reading a paper. "Finished with this?" Rebus asked, picking up another. Frazer nodded. "Chicken phal," Rebus explained, rubbing his stomach. "Hold all my calls and let everyone know the shunkie's off-limits." Frazer nodded and smiled. Saturday morning on the bog with the paper: everyone had done it at one time.

It seemed to him a very Edinburgh thing. Welcoming, but not very.

A lot of writers, especially crime writers, have an image that we think we're trying to keep up with. You've got to be seen as dark and slightly dangerous. But I'm not like that and I've realised that I don't need to put that on. People will buy the books whether they see a photo of you dressed in black or not.

The most difficult part of any crime novel is the plotting. It all begins simply enough, but soon you're dealing with a multitude of linked characters, strands, themes and red herrings - and you need to try to control these unruly elements and weave them into a pattern.

[About a tiresome colleague]: He could bore for Scotland.

Witches never existed, except in people's minds. All there was in the olden days was women and some men who believed in herbal cures and in folklore and in the wish to fly. Witches? We're all witches in one way or another. Witches was the invention of mankind, son. We're all witches beneath the skin.

It's easier if you do a handstand,' commented Rebus. 'What is?' 'Talking out of your arse.

POETS day," he reminded Siobhan. "Piss Off Early, Tomorrow's Saturday," she recited.

You need a great idea, but then you've got to carry it through. If you get it right, you're going to be a critical success. But not everyone who works hard gets it right, or has the success they deserve: there's an element of luck.

Rather than hanging around like a fart under a duvet.

St. Leonard's Police Station DS Siobhan Clarke (pronounced "Shiv-awn") DI Derek Linford no friend to Rebus, disliked by Siobhan DCS Gill Templer officer in charge of St. Leonard's DC David Hynds a new recruit DS George "Hi-Ho" Silvers officer with both eyes on approaching pension DC Grant Hood young and unpredictable officer with a crush on Siobhan DC Phyllida Hawes tough female officer, usually based at Gayfield Square DCI Bill Pryde second in command to DCS Gill Templer The Edward Marber Murder Case Edward Marber murdered Edinburgh art dealer Cynthia Bessant friend of the

I've just worked out what the music on the speakers is," he said. "It's John Martyn, Over The Hill."
"And ?"
"And nothing. It's just, maybe I'm not there yet.

Right from the very beginning, I knew I wanted to write palpably Scottish fiction.

Woodwork creaks and out come the freaks, eh?

I don't have many friends. It's not because I'm a misanthrope. It's because I'm reserved. I'm self-contained. I get all my adventures in my head when I'm writing my books.

Trapped in limbo, believing in a lack of belief, but not necessarily lacking the belief to believe.

I used to think that: whenever I heard that someone had taken 10 years to write a novel, I'd think it must be a big, serious book. Now I think, 'No - it took you one year to write, and nine years to sit around eating Kit Kats.'

muted 'thanks' as the person moved away. 'It

And little girls went to charm schools. Now you've all got degrees from the University of Sarcasm.

The first piece of advice I would give any writer is to read a lot and to read widely. Firstly you start to realize what's out there and what isn't out there. Publishers are looking for stories that haven't been told before. Reading other people can also improve your own writing. I love reading poetry even though I wouldn't think of writing it. A great poet can say in two lines what it takes me a whole novel to express. If I've learned from any kind of writing, it's poetry – and the lesson is concision. What can you leave out and the reader will still get the message?

all eyes turned towards him, entered the

I love short stories - reading and writing them. The best short stories distill all the potency of a novel into a small but heady draught. They are perfect reading material for the bus or train or for a lunchtime break. Everything extraneous has been strained off by the author. The best short stories pack the heft of any novel, yet resonate like poetry.

I'm game if you are.

Scotsman's way of dealing with death. He'd found

It was a quiet street - people kept themselves to themselves. It

I am, of course, a frustrated rock star - I'd much rather be a rock star than a writer. Or own a record shop. Still, it's not a bad life, is it? You just sit at a computer and make stuff up.

Sky glowing dull pink. Simmer dim, as the Shetlanders called

It was the laughter of birthdays, of money found in an old pocket.

We've already eaten,' Fox said. 'Nice, was

The Scottish vernacular is rich in colourful euphemisms for inebriation: 'stocious', 'stotting', 'guttered', 'steaming', 'steamboats', 'wellied' and 'hoolit' are just a few. Another is 'mortal', as in 'I was fair mortal last night' (meaning 'I was very drunk indeed'). So 'Mortal Causes' evoked, in my mind, the demon drink, just as surely as it did any darker and more violent imagery.

Job, actually. I read it once a long time ago. It seems more frightening now though. The man who begins to doubt, who shouts out against his God, looking for a response, and who gets one. 'God gave the world to the wicked,' he says at one point, and 'Why should I bother?' at another." "It sounds interesting. But he goes on bothering?" "Yes, that's the incredible thing.

No matter how many awards you've won or how many sales you've got, come the next book it's still a blank sheet of paper and you're still panicking like hell that you've got nothing new to say.

There's an insult buried in there somewhere, but I can't quite see it.

I think writers have to be proactive: they've got to use new technology and social media. Yes, it's hard to get noticed by traditional publishers, but there's a great deal of opportunity out there if you've got the right story.

He wondered what percentage of the world's art was actually kept in bank vaults and the like. Like unread books and unplayed music, did it matter that art went unseen?

No sooner had he finished with a case than another two or three appeared in its place. What was the name of that creature? The Hydra, was it? That was what he was fighting. Every time he cut off a head, more popped into his in-tray. Coming back from a holiday was a nightmare. And now they were giving him rocks to push up hills as well.

His eyes beheld beauty not in reality but in the printed word. Standing in the waiting-room, he realized that in his life he had accepted secondary experience
the experience of reading someone else's thoughts
over real life.

Places changing and people with them, dreams shifting ever further beyond reach.

We've piled his plate high with shit," Fox conceded. "And not even tied a bib around his neck," Kaye added. "Is your afternoon grilling to be courtesy of a woman called Stoddart?