Sarah Pinborough Quotes

Then she said that truth was all relative. Truth often came down to what is the most believable version of events.

My first six books were horror, I think because when I was young I loved Stephen King. John Wyndham, Daphne Du Maurier, and it's natural to try and emulate the books you first loved.

I guess sometimes you have to hide from the world to see it properly.

I'm a lot less travelled as an adult than I was as a child, but I think living in far flung places gives you a perspective on the world and people that adds flavour to your writing.

I'm not a natural researcher, and I don't get bogged down in it, but I think if you get it right in the first half, people will forgive you, and then you can move on with the story.

When had her moment come, that second when trust slid into mistrust and love cracked wide, emptying, leaving only the brittle shell?

Found dead. A verdict as useful as a fucking Bible in the Bluegate Brothel.

Unfortunately it is perhaps in all our natures that we take the living for granted until they are no longer with us. - Thomas Bond

It's not that difficult, I want to say. People cheat all the time. The reasons are always selfish and base, it's the excuses we make that are complicated.

Those that were kind would never understand those that were cruel, and the cruel ones could never really respect kindness.

black and white are easy to live with; it's the shades of grey that give you nightmares

There's no right and wrong with feelings. There is only what there is." She

Everyone has secrets, Lou," she says. "Everyone should be allowed their secrets. You can never know everything about a person. You'd go mad trying to.

The kind of belly men loved in women and women hated in themselves.

Monsters don't scare me at all; I think creepy is scarier than gore. I tend to read more thrillers and mysteries than horror, though. I like a good whodunnit. If I want scary, I tend to reach for a movie. I think it's a great medium for horror.

A home needs to be filled with love, and some houses--her own, as it had been, included--don't have enough heat in their love to warm them.

I wrote my first five horror novels while I was teaching.

It's strange how different we all appear to who we really are.

Someone can do a terrible unforgivable thing, and yet you forgive them if you love them. The heart is such a strange thing.

An ending and a beginning now knotted up forever. He expected the hues of the world to change to reflect that, but the earth and heavens remained the same muted shades, and there was no tremble of anger from the trees. No weeping whisper of wind. No siren wailed in the distance. The woods were just the woods, and the dirt was just the dirt.

Sometimes I forget you're still pretty young......"
Yeah, she thought. Sometimes I do too.

The Thames Torso murders almost fell into my lap. After deciding to use a real historical crime as the focus for the book, I went to Google and searched for unsolved murders in Victorian London, and they basically popped out at me about halfway down the first results page.

There's no right or wrong with feelings. There is only what there is.

I was his practice wife, I realize. Adam and I were his practice family. When the story of his life is spun, we will simply be the early threads. We will not be the color.

...people don't ever really trust each other enough to not have doubts. No one ever truly thinks the best of anyone else.

They say women are the softer sex. The more emotional. Which fool decided that? A man in love is weakness personified. A man in love will tell you anything. Share anything. Give you everything.

I am exhausted and you are nearly invisible. What a pair we are.

Something is building, bubbling in my stomach, flaring into white heat, and I don't know if it will explode out of me in anxiety or whether it will meet with the dark spots at the edge of my vision and push me out to pass out. I want it to come out in words that I don't have. I want it to make sense. To not just be mine. And then just when I am about to combust, it appears in the night. Out of nowhere.

Dark and light. Horror and beauty. Everything is extremes.

Growing up is about the moment of realising that the cracks in the pavement are nothing to worry about. It's the cracks on your insides that count.

People believe lives, as if they're the truth of a person rather than the window dressing. You only have to look at Facebook. All those miserable people trying to outshine each other with holiday photos and humble brags and #feelingblessed. Adding people they've never met and thinking they somehow know them from the shit they share. One friend in common.

If you thought about it hard enough, you could be scared of everything.

There is a language to dying. It creeps like a shadow alongside the passing years and the taste of it hides in the corners of our mouths. It finds us whether we are sick or healthy. It is a secret hushed thing that lives in the whisper of the nurses' skirts as they rustle up and down our stairs. They've taught me to face the language one syllable at a time, slowing creating an unwilling meaning.

The inside information comes later. Those talks are for the middle of the night, heads on pillows, faces only outlines in the darkness. That's when people surrender their weapons to each other and hope they don't end up stabbed in the night by them in the future.