“I suppose I needed to share it with her. I suppose I needed someone to forgive me.”
― Daniel Silva, quote from The Kill Artist
“The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “Send men that they may spy out the land of Canaan, which I give to the children of Israel; of every tribe of their fathers shall you send a man, every one a prince among them.” —Numbers 13:1-2”
― Daniel Silva, quote from The Kill Artist
“The further we are from the last disaster, the closer we are to the next.”
― Daniel Silva, quote from The Kill Artist
“work for Shamron, he would have to leave the Vecellio”
― Daniel Silva, quote from The Kill Artist
“For every terrorist we kill, there’s another boy waiting to step forward and pick up the stone or the gun. They’re like shark’s teeth: break one and another will rise in it’s place.”
― Daniel Silva, quote from The Kill Artist
Daniel Silva
Born place: Michigan
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“I have now scoured your Internet, and have identified several ersatz concierges that were created by your own society, and are in current and active use throughout it. I strongly suggest that you allow me to import and implement one of them.” I caught Manda’s eye. She shrugged. “Sure,” I said. “Earth’s most popular ersatz concierge has had hundreds of millions of users—although its usage has declined rather dramatically in recent years. Shall we try that one?” I really, really, really should have asked why the thing was shedding users. Instead I shrugged and said, “Why not?” The dazzling, octodimensional projection instantly transformed into a flat rendering of a paperclip with googly eyes. “That’s an ersatz concierge?” Manda whispered after a shocked silence. “Dear God …” As she said this, the paperclip’s eyes darted cunningly from side to side. Then a cartoon bubble appeared above its head reading, “It looks like you’re writing a letter. Would you like help?” It was Clippy—the despised emcee of Microsoft Office. I knew him well. Because while he had allegedly retired long ago, my firm—like so many others—had clung to the Clippy-infested Windows XP operating system for years beyond its expiration date, staving off the expense and trauma of a Windows upgrade. That process had finally started eighteen months back. But copyright associates are low in the priority queue—and I had been slated to get upgraded “next month” for as long as I could remember. “Okay, go back,” I said. Clippy stared at me impassively. “Stop it. Cut it out. Go back. Use the other interface. Use the gem thing.” As I said this, Clippy’s eyes started darting again as he scribbled on a notepad with an animated pencil. Another cartoon bubble appeared. “It looks like you’re making a list. Should I format it?” I fell into an appalled silence. Then Manda gave it a shot. “We do not want to use this ersatz concierge,” she enunciated clearly. “Please return us to the previous one.” Clippy gazed back with bovine incomprehension. We went on to try every command, plea, and threat that we could think of. But we couldn’t get back to the prior concierge. Luckily, the stereopticon’s projector mode was still working fine (“If you download Windows Media Player, I’m throwing you under a bus,” Manda warned it).”
― Rob Reid, quote from Year Zero
“Jack had a way of sneaking up on her, like a cold or...a chin hair.”
― Jennifer Shirk, quote from Fiance by Fate
“Ember, the bad comes in with the good. And I want all of it—I want your secrets, your worry, your pain. I love you—you’re not alone in this life.”
― Laura Thalassa, quote from The Vanishing Girl
“At this point, the narrative will turn its focus elsewhere in the interest of providing Liam and Anna with a bit of privacy. Should the reader feel disappointment at the lack of description of turgidity, chiseled bits of anatomy, or things that are pulsing or quivering, well, this just isn’t that kind of story. Sorry.”
― quote from What Would Satan Do?
“April 27. Incapable of living with people, of speaking. Complete immersion in myself, thinking of myself. Apathetic, witless, fearful. I have nothing to say to anyone - never.”
― Franz Kafka, quote from Diaries of Franz Kafka
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