It all goes like that: Q: Oh, fuck. Double thousand triple fuckity fuck. (c)
The 2nd book is even better than the 1st one, imho. The author is going to be very careful so that the3d one doesn't repeat Harris' flop with his 3d vol of Hannibal Lecter. Joe & Love are such precocious characters that I have no idea what path would let the 3d book to be at least equal in standing with its predecessors.
Q:
I smile. We exist. We are both on a journey and we are both in love and that’s all anyone can hope for in life. (c)
In this one, Joe spends a lot of quality time contemplating his forgotten mug of piss... I'm not kidding. It's mentioned or referenced about 60 (!) times.
Q:
At night I worry. I wonder if there are other mugs of piss, if I forgot about them. (c)
Q:
I am not unique; to be alive is to have a mug of urine out there. ...
The mug is an aberration. A flaw. Proof that I’m not perfect, even though I’m usually so precise, so thorough. (c)
Q:
Sometimes I can’t believe how alike we are.”
I stiffen. “You’ve looked in my phone?” CandaceBenjiPeachBeckMugofUrine. (c)
Q:
… if this were a cartoon, I could stretch my rubber arm all the way across the beach, into that house, up those rickety stairs, into that bedroom, reclaim my mug of urine, and then, then I would have it all. (c)
Q:
He is boiling down to his fuck you self. This is his mug of urine, his mistake, and his is infinitely worse than mine. His mug of piss may not contain his DNA, but it reveals so much more, his demented ego, his emotional core. (c)
Q:
But you can’t go back in time; I know this from the mug of fucking piss. (c)
Q:
I don’t see any cameras but the mug of piss I left in Rhode Island is with me at times like this. (c)
I also totally loved how Joe got his ass handed to him by a girl!
Q:
Her foot is a weapon and she knows it. She kicks me in the crotch. I scream and roll to my side and that foot gets my kidney. I fold into myself and now she gets my tailbone and I retreat and now that fucking foot jabs me in my belly.
“Stop!” I beg. ...
This was supposed to be Amy. That was supposed to be me on the bed, in control. I open my eyes. She perceives my eyes as a threat and she jumps off the bed and kicks me in the head. ...
I cry.
In the big way. (c)
Q:
This girl doesn’t want to bring in male authority figures; look how many resistance bands she has in her possession. She was training for something like this. This girl is a vigilante... (c)
Q:
“Who are you?”
This matters, what I say to her. I have to be someone she wants to set free. This is the most important question I will ever answer and I swallow. (c)
And he's still his borderline stalkery OCD self.
Q:
I have done everything right this time around. I’m a good boyfriend. I chose well. (c)
Q:
Everything can wait when you have love in your life. (c)
Q:
He says it’s odd the way I know so many people who don’t fucking exist anymore and I let him rant. I don’t tell him that the last person who said that to me wound up dead. (с)
Q:
(Of course I’ve followed her and I occasionally look in her phone. I have to know that she isn’t lying.) (c)
Q:
YOU don’t go to a party empty-handed and my reusable Pantry bag is stuffed with rope, my Rachael Ray knife, rubber gloves, plastic bags, duct tape…
… Home Depot, where I bought random stuff, rope and duct tape, plastic bags, cable ties, and plastic gloves. The girl at the register winked and said she’s also a big fan of Fifty Shades… (с)
Q:
I wish it were socially acceptable to brandish a knife. (c)
Q:
And this, this is why you have to kill people. If you don’t, they don’t learn anything. They just reemerge, more muscled, more manipulative, more hell-bent on taking you down, maneuvering reporters into furthering their agenda.(c)
Q:
I’m also going to kill her because there is no happy ending for a star-fucking girl like Delilah, a girl who actively refuses to embrace her talents, celebrate her insides, lead with her brain. (c)
Q:
It’s the little things that make you want to kill someone... (c)
Q:
I win. Milo does too. He’s alive ... (c)
Q:
He takes the microphone and he hasn’t learned anything yet. He starts by ranting at me that he’s a cop—as if I didn’t know this—that he’s an American—as if I’m not—that he’s gonna see to it that I wind up behind bars—as if he’s in a position to do this. ...
“This is crazy. You gotta let me out of here.”
That’s not happening and he should realize that and I ignore him and I spin through his Rolodex and thank God that I am me, that I didn’t get sick like this, that I don’t covet imaginary friends and pry into places where I don’t belong. What a dreadful existence, to be the man in possession of this Rolodex. (c)
How do you kill philosophically? You don't. Joe does.
Q:
I think that’s why people in LA fall apart, why they get so needy, so desperate for validation, for their cars, for their body parts, for their talents. They forgot that the sweetest thing in life is to be alone, as you were born, as you will die, soaking in the sun, knowing that you put the cactus in the right place, that you don’t need someone to come along and compliment your work, that someone who did that would, in fact, just be getting in the way. I am at peace here. Fincher is too. (c)
Q:
It’s just where you want to be when you fly back to America after burying a dead cop... (c)
He's being his judgmental self:
Q:
Cunts want to be snowflakes. (c)
Q:
I see his small life, it’s all in his eyes, unlived, dreams he didn’t chase, dreams he won’t chase, not because he’s a pussy, because he simply doesn’t see his dreams in detail, the kind of details that drive a person to pack their shit, to move. (c)
Q:
“An actor?” It stings. Why not a director? Or doctor? (c) Authority issues, pal?
Q:
She is evil. She is dangerous. She is incapable of love. She is a sociopath. Worse than a borderline. That’s why she uses fucking burner phones. She’s a criminal. (с)
Q:
They all think this, these girls—Amy—that they can leave your past behind. Don’t they know it’s not that simple? It’s not the past if it’s not finished. (с)
Q:
For now though, it’s time for him to learn a lesson. I’m rummaging through his duffel bag. The contents alone are reason enough to kill him. He brought headshots and five-pound weights and condoms and Jimmy Buffett T-shirts (tags on, asshole) and banana hammocks. Didn’t he get the memo that this was work? But that’s not even the bad part. The bad part is that Robin Fincher keeps an old-fashioned secretarial Rolodex of celebrity encounters. I’m serious. (c)
Q:
“You won’t get away with this.”
“Of course I will,” I say. “If you were a better cop, you’d realize that by now.” (c)
Gasp! And a feminist! For about a sec:
Q:
Every woman in this place yells something along the lines of I-will-fuck-you and if you want to see the opposite of feminism, go to a comedian’s house. (c)
He's unabashedly something else:
Q:
This was not a blowjob; this was fellatio, my friends. (c)
Q:
When a woman wants to socialize, no penis in the world can replace meaningless conversation… (c)
Q:
… it must have been so much easier in the dark ages, before restaurants, when there was no fucking Little Compton Coupon Guide designed with the explicit purpose of interfering in our fuckfest. (c)
Q:
… I put my Charles in her Charlotte… (c)
Q:
I am goal oriented. I put a lot of pressure on myself to be a productive member of society. Even now, I do my best. I keep one hand in Love’s vagina and one hand on my phone. I am a multitasker. I don’t bask. (c)
Q:
She straddles me and I live here now, in Malibu, in Love. Hunting season is over.(c)
Q:
You have to understand, I am living in a dream world. Every morning begins with Love riding my dick. (c)
Q:
I picture her alone in the middle of the night cutting her inner thighs, but it’s possible that I’m wrong, that some people are just free of demons. (c)
He still tells himself pretty little stories about the world:
Q:
She likes a story, my little anthropologist, my listener. (c)
Q:
Beck was such a mess that in order to take care of her, I had to follow her home and hack into her e-mail and worry about her Facebook and her Twitter and her nonstop texting, all the contradictions, the lies. ...
That sick girl lied to the people with whom she was closest—me, Peach, her fucking fellow writers in school. She told me her father was dead. (He wasn’t.) She told me she hated Magnolia just because her friend Peach hated it. (She was lying. I read her e-mail.) (c)
Q:
… this is why people shouldn’t commit suicide, because maybe, someday, you might get to sit in the shade with someone who is refreshingly different! (c)
Q:
God, I love her brain, all pink and mushy and suspicious. (c)
Q:
Families fascinate me; Peach is dead, but there is her nose, her frizzy hair. (c)
Q:
He pours the rest of his lean onto the grassy sand and I imagine the squirrels stoned. (c)
Q:
At the rental joint, the guy asks me if I had any trouble with the car. It is with great pleasure that I tell him we had absolutely no trouble at all. He looks at me like I’m crazy and it’s okay because I am. (c)
Q:
Making It in Hollywood is the most disgusting phrase in the English language. It’s more disturbing than prolific serial killer and rare terminal illness. (c)
Q:
And this is when I know I’ve caught aspirations. Nothing good can come from them. I knew this before I moved here. (c)
Casually admits to having authority issues:
Q:
“We’re gonna get to the bottom of some of these choices. Same way I acknowledged my bad choice when I crossed the street. Yes, I have authority issues. I concede that I should have waited for the walk signal, Robin. I can be a punk. I am a little fucking New York that way and you were right and I accepted my responsibility.” (c)
Some of his moments of clarity are awesome:
Q:
I wasted my time worrying about Milo when I should have been keeping eyes on Forty. Milo was never a threat. He loves Love and she doesn’t love him back and most of the time in life, I’m starting to realize, love is not the problem. It’s the people like Forty, like Amy, like Beck, the people who are loveless. And it’s possible to know this right away. Forty labeled me Old Sport because he didn’t want me to have a name. It is possible to know people. They show you who they are. You just have to be looking. (c)
Q:
His absence is a wrecking ball and Love is a tired, brittle, worried mess and this is what I cannot allow. I can’t let him do this to her, to us. He can steal all my scripts. Fine. But he can’t torture Love. She knew right away what he was up to. (c)
And he’s still that pesky romantic, gasp!
Q:
In this bar, lying to these strangers, there has never been more honesty between us. We are closer with every lie, undercover together, fusing. (c)
Q:
I wish I could hit PAUSE and stay here in this moment, with the light fading. This is what all the love songs are about, the moment when you find your own way forward with someone and there is no turning back. (c)
Q:
I can’t wait to be old with her. (c)
Q:
It’s a truth that most people never want to own up to that some people were born at the wrong time. ... I feel extremely sorry for Forty because without a time machine, he will never be happy. (c)
Q:
Somewhere along the way she broke her own heart and without a heart, you can’t get better. (c)
Q:
The key is not just to continue believing, after all, but the key to life is to believe in something that matters, something big and beautiful, something more profound than fame, money. (c)
Q:
We fuck and we talk, our songs are on a loop, our life is on a loop, and suddenly my favorite word in the English language: We. (c)
Joe does some mean eulogizing this time around:
Q:
Anyone could stand up here and speak to Forty’s charming wit, his burgeoning brilliance, his generosity, his swagger, his madras shorts and madcap sense of adventure, his extensive knowledge of film and his idealist sense of commitment. ...
Forty Quinn knew that love is all there is; everything else is transient, impermanent. If he had made it across that street, I can guarantee you that he would have gotten out of the jaywalking ticket. (c)
He's freshly retired from murdering random people! Yay! Such an outstanding boy!
Q:
I was very good at killing people when I needed to be.
Was. The past tense. I’m retired. (c)
Q:
Angelenos like to meditate and stare at expensive statues of Buddha, and I stare at the cement. Same difference. I learn to smile at everyone and I feel the world reciprocate. (c) Reads like something that could stem from a self-help manual.
Q:
You believe in love. It really is all you need, although yes, a solid defense attorney helps too. (c)
Q:
I’ve already confessed my past to Love and I don’t want to confess my present. (c)
Q:
I am done with all that. And I will not let my past dictate my future. (c) Amen.
Well..., it’s a fun read. In it, he gets in love with Love. Wow. :
Q:
All of life is slightly dependent on magic. (c)
Q:
I don’t like this culture of reading a book and spitting out an immediate reaction. (c)
Q:
He’s an alcoholic and I bet he doesn’t remember most of his life but he better try. (c)
Q:
As if not cool is the correct way to describe being tied up and interrogated. (c)
Q:
We read. We both agree that our respective works are genius. Forty is blown away by my vision in Fakers and I give it right back to him. I claim to be impressed by structure in The Mess even though The Mess is incoherent nonsense. (c)
Q:
This is why people like writing. You visit old friends without having to go on Facebook and see what they’re up to ... You make them into what you want them to be, the people they could be if only they were braver, smarter. (c)
Q:
“Every story begins as a story,” he says, as if this makes any sense. (c)
Q:
“It seems so random, like someone passionately demanding a grilled chicken sandwich.” (c)
Q:
“My job is to make things work,” she says. “My job is not to tear them down.”
“We’re talking about a blowjob,” I remind her. “Not world peace.” (c)
Q:
It is worse than I thought and better than I thought. It is a lesson in instincts. (c)
Q:
Everyone has something. Some people have a difficult child and some people have a sick child and some people have a limp and some people have an impossible mother and there is nobody on earth who has nothing. I have a mug of my DNA in a house in Rhode Island. And this is what Love has: a brother. A nightmare. (c)
Q:
If I got an e-mail from someone claiming to be Megan Fox, I would assume it was spam. I would think someone was fucking with me. Fincher is a cop. He’s not a moron. But maybe he is because look at his fucking response, almost immediate: (c)
Q:
We need some sort of awareness program about aspirations, the way they degrade the brains of Los Angeles. (c)
Q:
I remember feeling this happy once, when I was a kid. Snow covered the streets and they were perfect and white, as if the world had been coated in vanilla ice cream. My mom said school was canceled and I could go outside. I’d seen snow before, but there was something about the snow that day. (c)
Q:
I pretend to care if a marlin nips at my line while I think about Fincher. He arrives later today. My plan is simple... (c)
Q:
THE water was beautiful but the situation is irritating. I still don’t have Captain Dave’s key. He keeps them looped to his belt; they may as well be attached to his dick. (c)
Q:
It is a miracle that she is not a vapid nitwit and this is the rest of my life, under the covers... (c)
Q:
... he is so high that he doesn’t ask where we’re going. He only rants about how he’s never getting married and how he’s gonna live with me and Love and all the fun we’re gonna have. He’s sealing the deal on his death... (c) Some people are like that. Twisted.
Q:
This is the part of college I never wanted: a self-important fuckwit contemplating the sea. (c)
Q:
I look at Love and she smiles. She likes this story I’m telling because the truth would be terrible. (c)
Q:
I knock on the table. He squints. “Son,” he says. “That’s a metal table.”
He laughs and he goes and I find a birch tree. I knock. (c)
Q:
When you get baptized, you fall back into the water, your entire body. Some people hold their noses. Some people don’t. But there is no way around it; you have to get wet if you want to be in God’s hands. (c)
Q:
I gave her as much as I had, but it’s like the difference between a movie and a book: A book lets you choose how much of the blood you want to see. A book gives you the permission to see the story as you want, as your mind directs. You interpret. Your Alexander Portnoy doesn’t look like mine because we all have our own unique view. When you finish a movie you leave the theater with your friend and talk about the movie right away. When you finish a book you think. Love grew up on movies and I have just read her a book. I give her the time to digest. (c)
Q:
I’ve never harmed an animal; I can’t imagine being that sort of monster. (c)
Q:
It’s clear she’s never talked about this to anyone; you know when someone is opening up a box so private that there isn’t a key. (c)
Q:
The whole world feels bigger now that someone else knows everything, someone who loves me. (c)
Q:
The girl is dead and we were secret lovers. What can you ever do about that? (c)
Q:
She is not like me, not like Love. She is not burdened with a sensitive heart. Hers just beats. (c)
Q:
Nature is an inherently forward beast; footsteps disappear, past hurts fade. (c)
Q:
He says it’s odd the way I know so many people who don’t fucking exist anymore and I let him rant. I don’t tell him that the last person who said that to me wound up dead. (c)
Q:
In my head, I recite Corinthians; Love is patient, love is kind. (c)
Q:
The future is a frontier we can’t fully explore until we make it there, but then we arrive, and the distant horizon has become something else, something less romantic. ...
You realize your intuition is stronger than science, truer than a molecule. (c)
Q:
Life puts you in cage so that you’ll treasure your freedom, how lucky you were to be running on a beach, the way your girlfriend looked over her shoulder at you, the ring you did not fashion out of a straw. All time is good. No time is hard, not if you think of it as time to celebrate love. (c)