Mr.

“He kissed me a second time, his mouth was dry, he drenched me with saliva, his precious commodity, what he spits on the street.”
― Hervé Guibert, Crazy for Vincent

“The Demons are afraid of what we are hunting”
― China Mieville, Perdido Street Station

“What was that squirrel?” Billy said.
“Freelancer,” Dane said.
“What? Freelance what?”
“Familiar.” Familiar. “Don’t look like that. Familiar. Don’t act like you’ve never heard of one.”
Billy thought of black cats. “Where is it now?”
“I don’t know, I don’t want to know. It did what I paid it for.” Dane did not look at him. “Job done. So it’s gone.”
“What did you pay it?”
“I paid it nuts, Billy. What would you think I’d pay a squirrel?”
― China Mieville, Kraken

“If you dare tell me he’s Odysseus’s son as if that’s some sacred charm, I will scream,” she answers, clear as the ringing of the hollow drum. “I will wail and rend my hair, the whole thing. So help me, Hera, I will do it.” Sweetheart, I whisper, I’m here for it. Many is the time my husband has returned from his frolics and I’ve turned on the waterworks, rent my garments, flung myself upon the ground and sworn that I shall die, scratched at my eyes, drawn blood from my celestial skin and beaten my fists against his chest. It doesn’t change his behaviour long-term, but at least I get to embarrass him some tiny, tiny fraction of the way he humiliates, demeans, dishonours and diswomans me. So you do the wailing; I’ll bring the olives.”
― Claire North, Ithaca