Bokelskere.no

"Who are you?" asked Shadow.
"Okay," she said. "Good question. I'm the idiot box. I'm the TV. I'm the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I'm the boob tube. I'm the little shrine the family gathers to adore."
"You're the television? Or someone in the television?"
"The TV is the altar. I'm what people are sacrificing to."
"What do they sacrifice?" asked Shadow.
"Their time, mostly," said Lucy. "Sometimes each other."

Then she looked at the man on the tree and she smiled wryly. ”They just aren’t as interesting naked,” she said. ”It’s the unwrapping that’s half the fun. Like with gifts, and eggs.”

People only fight over imaginary things.

”Media. I think I have heard of her. Isn’t she the one who killed her children?”
”Different woman,” said Mr. Nancy. ”Same deal.”

Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

"If hell is other people, then airports is purgatory"

Even Nothing cannot last forever. He might have been there, been Nowehere, for ten minutes or for ten thousand years. It made no difference. Time was an idea for which he no longer had any need.

How was the funeral?" he asked.

"It's over," said Shadow.

"That shitty, huh? You want to talk about it?"

"No," said Shadow.

"Good." Wednesday grinned. "Too much talking these days. Talk talk talk. This country would get along much better if people learned to suffer in silence. You hungry?"

That wasn´t the first thing he said to her. The first thing was 'I love you', because it´s a good thing to say if you can mean it, and Shadow did.