Sara Gran Quotes

We all want to be someone else. And sometimes we succeed in convincing ourselves we can be.
But it doesn't last, and our true selves, broken and scarred, always win out in the end.

Those who try to grasp on to the mystery will never succeed. Only those who let it slip their fingers will come to know it, and hear its secrets

Karma is not a sentence already printed. It is a series of words that authors can arrange as she chooses.

Karma," he said once, "is not a sentence already printed. It is a series of words the author can arrange as she choses."
Love. Murder. A broken heart. The professor in the drawing room with candlestick. The detective in the bar with the gun. The guitar player backstage with the pick.
Maybe it was true: Life was a series of words we'd been given to arrange as we pleased, only no one seemed to know how. A word game with no right solution, a crossword puzzle where we couldn't quite remember the name of that song.

Be grateful for every scar life inflicts on you. Where we're unhurt is where we are false. Where we are wounded and healed is where our real self gets to show itself. That's where you get to show who you really are

Some people, I saw, had drowned right away, and some people were drowning in slow motion, drowning a little bit at a time, and would be drowning for years. And some people, like Mick, had always been drowning, they just didn't know what to call it until now.

The detective thinks he is investigating a murder or a missing girl. But truly he is investigating something else altogether, something he cannot grasp hold of directly. Satisfaction will be rare. Uncertainty will be your natural state. Sureness will always elude you. The detective will always circle around what he wants, never seeing it whole. We do not go on despite this. We go on because of it.

Just when you thought the mafia novel was dead, Tod Goldberg breathes new life into it. Gangsterland, the best mafia novel in years, is a dark, funny, and smart page-turning crime story. It's also a moving, thoughtful meditation on ethics, religion, family, and a culture that eats itself. I loved this book.

There are no coincidences, only mysteries that haven't been solved, clues that haven't been placed. Most are blind to the language of the bird overhead, the leaf in our path, the phonographic record stuck in a groove, the unknown caller on the phone. They don't see the omens. They don't know the signs.

Interviewer: What does it mean to you to be a Silettian detective?
Murray: (Pause.) It means I was blind, and now I can see.
Interviewer: And the drinking?
Murray: Well. Some people need glasses to see, you know.

I was watching Iggy Pop videos on Youtube and trying to research miniature horse suicides.

Constance helped Mick see that there are never any sides. Only things we understand and things we have chosen to pretend we don't understand. Only those we admit we love and those we pretend we don't recognize.

Did I really think it was wonderful? Wonderful was probably an exaggeration. I thought it was fine. Maybe even good. I couldn't say the last time I thought anything was exactly wonderful. That implied more joy than I may ever have felt.

I was glad I wasn't pretty anymore. It was so much easier to do things like this without being pretty.

Most people wouldn't know the truth if it bit them in the ass and paid for the privilege.

But I knew I was there for a reason. There are no coincidences. Just opportunities you've been too dumb to take, doors you've been too blind to step through.

He leaned over and kissed me - not for the first time, but it still felt like something. Like something I don't remember having felt before, or at least for a long time. Like a door had been opened that had been shut so long ago that I forgot it was there, and whatever was behind that door was younger and brighter and less burdened than what I'd becom

You cannot follow another's footsteps to the truth," Silette wrote. "A hand can point the way. But the hand is not the teaching. The finger that points the way is not the way. The mystery is a payless land, and each detective must cut her own trail through a cruel territory.
"Believe nothing. Question everything. Follow only the clues.

Wasn't solving mysteries important? Didn't the truth matter? Of course, Silette had foreseen this. He knew the truth was, and always would be, the most unpopular point of view. "If there is anything that can unify us," he wrote to Constance during the Paris uprising, already old and bitter, "it is our love of deceit and lies, and our abhorrence of the truth.

There are no coincidences. Only doors you didn't have the courage to walk through. only blind spots you weren't brave enough to see. Only tones you refused to admit you could hear.

Soon enough my mind hooked onto the missing guitars and the locked door and the hole filled up with clues and suspects and all the detective stuff and I could pretend it was just another case.
The guitars. The lock. The keys. The gun. The musician in the drawing room with the gun. The duchess in the kitchen with the guitar. I let my mind fill with the case. It was only a case. Only another case. Another sentence of words to arrange.
Maybe that was all there was to life. One long case, only you kept switching roles. Detective, witness, client, suspect. Then one day I'd be the victim instead of the detective or the client and it would all be over. Then I'd finally have a fucking day off.

There's nothing that isn't worth writing about. If you look closely at your life you'll find plenty to write about there, too.

It doesn't matter what people want to hear. It doesn't matter if people like you. It doesn't matter if the whole world thinks you're crazy. It doesn't matter whose heart you break. What matters is the truth.