The question of how you can hope and expect someone to forgive you when deep down you don’t forgive yourself.
The gray had not yet chased all of the brown out of his hair but it was getting close to victory.
The air they drove through was clear and crisp. They kept the windows up and their expectations down. The call was a suicide run. They
The John Handy Quintet was on the stereo and the song was Naima, Handy’s 1967 ode to John Coltrane.
That number could be divided in a variety of ways, putting the missing point of the triangle in a myriad of possible positions on the map. What
Swag? Scientific wild ass guess.
She had said she was strong but he knew that comfort and strength could come from sadness. That was what she had.
On my way out of rent-a-car row I saw a sign with an arrow pointing the way to Paradise Road. I thought that everybody needed a sign like that. I wished that it was that easy.
Now the paper looked like somebody who had been through chemo—thin, unsteady, and knowing the inevitable could only be held off for so long.
Non… Gratum… Anum… Ro—’ I can’t make that out. Rodentum, Bosch said. Sakai looked at him. Dog Latin, Bosch told him. Not worth a rat’s ass. He was a tunnel rat. Vietnam.
I’m only a few years behind you, she said. It will happen to me. No, you’ll be fine, Bosch said. Your job is telling stories. Stories will always need to be told.
It had been Bosch’s experience that when you looked back at a life, you used a magnifying glass. Everything was bigger, amplified.
I fully acknowledge that it is easier to knock something down than to build it in the first place. But
I felt sympathy for her but not too much. Idealism dies hard with everybody.
He was a worn-out old man whose eyes had quit caring about anything but the odds on three-year-olds.
He knew that you didn’t win justice by carrying a sign or a cardboard coffin. You earned it by being on the side of the righteous, by being unswayed from that
He believed that war brought out the true character in a person, good or bad. He had no sympathy for Banks or the others.
Harry was not a big man. He stood a few inches short of six feet and was built lean. The newspapers, when they described him, called him wiry. Beneath the jumpsuit his muscles were like nylon cords, s...
Florida? I’d never been there and all my life I’ve liked orange juice.
Everybody seemed to be on a cell phone. The marble floor and high ceiling took all of the voices and multiplied them into a fierce cacophony of white noise.