Ozella Visco

“This is the Death’s-head Moth,” he said. “That’s nightshade she’s sitting on—we’re hoping she’ll lay.” The moth was wonderful and terrible to see, its large brown-black wings tented like a cloak, and on its wide furry back, the signature device that has struck fear in men for as long as men have come upon it suddenly in their happy gardens. The domed skull, a skull that is both skull and face, watching from its dark eyes, the cheekbones, the zygomatic arch traced exquisitely beside the eyes. “Acherontia styx,” Pilcher said. “It’s named for two rivers in Hell. Your man, he drops the bodies in a river every time—did I read that?” “Yes,” Starling said. “Is it rare?” “In this part of the world it is. There aren’t any at all in nature.”
― Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs

“I am a machine condemned to devour books.”
― Karl Marx

“Between ourselves, I’ve started to worry that in some backhanded way I’ve become attached to the disfigurement of my own life.”
― Lionel Shriver, We Need to Talk About Kevin

“You've got to get obsessed and stay obsessed.”
― John Irving, The Hotel New Hampshire