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Chigurh shot him in the face. Everything that Wells had ever known or thought or loved drained slowly down the wall behind him. His mother's face, his First Communion, women he had known. The faces of men as they died on their knees before him. The body of a child dead in a roadside ravine in another country.

People complain about the bad things that happen to em that they dont deserve but they seldom mention the good. About what they done to deserve them things. I dont recall that I ever give the good Lord all that much cause to smile on me. But he did.

His whole life was sitting there in front of him. Day after day from dawn till dark until he was dead. All of it cooked down into forty pounds of paper in a satchel.

Det er ingen sak å reise, se nye steder, vanskeligere er det hver dag å gå den samme ruten, se de samme stedene, på en ny måte, kanskje, men likevel, de samme gatene, de samme husene, for å finne en ny tanke, en helt ny måte å være den samme på.

Når hun går ved siden av meg, går det en person ved siden av henne og denne skikkelsen er ikke jeg. Slik hun ser det holder denne dobbeltgjengeren eller stedfortrederen eller bedrageren en annen i hånden: jeg er ikke meg og hun er en annen. Ethvert forhold involverer flere enn akkurat de to som holder hverandre i hånden. Med henne har jeg fornemmelsen av at jeg er sammen med en hel roman.

When you're depressed, you can't remember what it's like to be happy. But when you're up, you can remember the depression, and when it lifts the relief is so intense that you'll do anything not to get back into that state. Of course, sometimes you don't have the choice, and it wasn't for a few years that I learned that there were things going on in my brain that were more complicated than I knew. The alien was still tapping at my window.

I know now what he was trying to do, but Atticus was only a man. It takes a woman to do that kind og work

I said I would like it very much, which was a lie, but one must lie under certain circumstances and at all times when one can't do antydning about them.

She was horrible. Her face was the colour of a dirty pillowcase, and the corners of her mouth glistened with wet, which inched like a glacier down the deep grooves enclosing her chin. Old-age liver spots dotted her cheeks , and her pale eyes had black pinpoint pupils. Her hands were knobby, and the cuticles were grown up over her fingernails. Her bottom plate was not in, and her upper lip protruded; from time to time she would draw her nether lip to her upper plate and carry her chin with it. This made the wet move faster.

Long ago, in a burst of friendliness, Aunty and Uncle Jimmy produced a son named Henry, who left home as soon as was humanly possible, married, and produced Francis.

At folk blir like når de lever sammen, det er godt, mener hun. Det skaper den tryggheten alle trenger. Alene er man bare alene.

Den norske vårsolen steiker fra himmelen. Folk går i shorts og t-skjorter, og de har glemt hvor surt det kan være i november, eller i februar.
Sånn er det med folk.
De lever nå.

Alt som har med henne å gjøre, har med det som er gammelt å gjøre.
Fortiden.
Det er det som er hennes tid.

Arve, sier farmor og smiler. Er du her.
Ja, sier Arve.
Så blir de stående og se på hverandre.
Det er veldig mange år mellom dem.
Det er det eneste det er mellom dem.

Jem stayed moody and silent for a week. As Atticus has one adviced me to do, I tried to climb into Jem's skin and walk around in it: If I had gone alone to the Radley Place at two in the morning, my furneral would have been held the next afternoon. So I left Jem alone and tried not to bother him.

Ta med deg alt om du vil, la ikke så mye som en tøffel bli igjen, utslett meg, knus meg til pinneved, sug meg opp, jeg ønsker allikevel ikke å sette igjen noen spor etter meg, jeg ønsker ikke å bli husket for noe. Jeg ønsker bare at det tar slutt, du blir en seier uansett, du blir min etterlengtede seier over tankene, de har plaget meg lenge nok, de kan ikke annet enn å plage, de husker bare seg selv...

Noen ganger får jeg følelsen av at hjernen også har en hjerne... Det kan umulig være jeg alene som gir meg selv alle disse beskjedene, disse tåpelige oppdragene, disse idiotiske inntrykk og fornemmelser, det kan ikke stamme fra meg alt sammen, hvordan kunne det? hva har de med meg å gjøre, disse evindelige grubleriene? hvem er det jeg tror jeg er?

Ingenting blir borte, det bare hoper seg opp. Selv jeg, som ikke ser en dritt, sitter her med hodet fullt av tåpelige bilder...