Recently added

“The scope of your ignorance, Peter,” said Seawoll, “is truly frightening.”

“If they were ugly, Peter, would you care half so much?” asked Nightingale. “There are some hideous things out there that can talk and reason, and I wonder if you would be quite so quick to rush to their defense.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “But that just makes me shallow, it doesn’t make me wrong.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

“Yes.”

“Which as usual,” said Seawoll, “is as about as useful as a chocolate teapot.”

Sometimes when someone tells you not to go somewhere, it’s better not to go there.

‘‘This isn’t some stupid storybook where the underdog wins in the end. This is the real world. The strongest do what they want, and everyone else has to live with it. Or”—she glanced significantly at Isaac—“not.”

Questions would be asked. Answers would be ignored.

She had the startled rabbit look that civilians get after five minutes of helping the police with their inquiries. If they stay calm for too long it’s a sign that they’re professional villains or foreign or just plain stupid. All of which can get you locked up if you’re not careful. If you find yourself talking to the police, my advice is to stay calm but look guilty; it’s your safest bet.

“Cyrus was a musician?” I asked.

“He played the alto sax.”

“And he played jazz?”

Another brief smile. “Is there any other kind of music?”

I wasn’t ready to believe in ghosts, but that’s the thing about empirical experience: it’s the real thing.

“Your father,” I said. “What does he really want?”

“What any father wants,” said Oxley. “The respect of his children.”

I nearly said that not all fathers were worthy of respect, but I managed to keep my gob shut and anyway not everyone had a dad like mine.

Men have died for this music. You can’t get more serious than that.

—Dizzy Gillespie

Nobody likes a riot except looters and journalists.