Lockwood Quotes

True love is taking the risk that it won't be a happily-ever-after. True love is joining hands with the man who loves you for who you are, and saying, "I'm not afraid to believe in you.

A wonderful gift may not be wrapped as you expect.

Really?" "No. I'm being ironic. Or is it sarcastic? I can never remember." "Irony's cleverer, so you're probably being sarcastic.

Okay...' I hurried on. 'But why me?' 'You're a girl,' Lockwood called. 'Aren't you supposed to be more sensitive?' 'To emotions, yes. To nuances of human behavior. Not necessarily to secret passages in a wall.' 'Oh, it's much the same thing.

STANFORD LOCKWOOD WORLD'S BEST FATHER

Making tea is a ritual that stops the world from falling in on you.

Well, I make that one murder victim, one police interrogation and one conversation with a ghost,” George said. “Now that’s what I call a busy evening.” Lockwood nodded. “To think some people just watch television.

- Plan F, we follow Plan F, right now. - Is that the one where we run away? - Not at all. It's the one where we beat a dignified emergency retreat.

Well,' Lockwood said, "if you judge success by the number of enemies you make, that was a highly successful evening.

This was classic Lockwood. Friendly, considerate, empathetic. My personal impulse would have been to slap the girl soundly around the face and boot her moaning backside out into the night. Which is why he's the leader, and I'm not. Also why I have no female friends.

It was a mistake to believe that other people were not living as deeply as you were. Besides, you were not even living that deeply.

What, are you queuing now? Just how British are you people? Don’t just stand in line! Kill somebody!

Forgive others, not because they deserve forgiveness, but because you deserve peace.

I wasn't pretty, but as my mother once said, prettiness wasn't my profession.

You shouldn’t have done it,” I said. “You shouldn’t have risked yourself.” “Come off it,” Lockwood said. “You know I’d die for you.” He chuckled. “Heaven knows, I’ve come near it often enough. Scrambling down a crack in the ground is nothing…

Never touch a mummified body part if you don't know where it's been. That's my motto.” [- Lockwood] “Holds true with unmummified ones too,” George said. “That's the motto I live by.

Of the first few hauntings I investigated with Lockwood & Co. I intend to say little, in part to protect the identity of the victims, in part because of the gruesome nature of the incidents, but mainly because, in a variety of ingenious ways, we succeeded in messing them all up.

It was one of those moments when a great Don't Care wave hits you, and you float off on it, head back, looking at the sky.

I'ts how I want to remember him, the way he was that night: with horrors up ahead and horrors at our back, and Lockwood standing in between them, calm and unafraid.

The essence of life is not in the great victories and grand failures, but in the simple joys.

...sometimes you just want the comfort of knowing that somebody really does care about you (even if they show it in peculiar ways).

Well, when you're being held at gunpoint by a geriatric madman in a metal skirt, you've kind of hit rock bottom anyway. It can't really get much worse.

Today is Your Day to Dance Lightly with Life. It Really Is.

Nothing could keep me from you. Nothing in life or Death...

Death is fugitive; even when you're watching for it, the actual instant somehow slips between your fingers. You don't get that sudden drop of the head you see in movies. Instead you simply sit there, waiting for something to happen, and all at once you realize you've missed it.

So stop worrying about the past. The past is for ghosts. We’ve all done things that we regret. It’s what’s ahead of us that counts.

Ah, two firm friends, reunited at last! There should be sweet violin music playing for us, but I'll settle for the screams of the dying.

Joy blooms where minds and hearts are open.

It wasn't the body," he said. "I've seen worse things in our fridge.

I was just thinking that you and I...have seen very different memes in our lives.

The skull’s…spirit? He…he looks different.” The youth scowled. “Yeah? You look just the same. I was banking on frostbite taking a few of your fingers, or even your nose. Here’s hoping something else has dropped off that I don’t know about. If not, I’ll be sorely disappointed.” Lockwood stared. “Does he always talk like this?” “No. Usually he’s worse. See what I have to put up with?

At Lockwood & Co., George was famous for not being able to throw or catch with any accuracy. Back in the kitchen at Portland Row, even the casual passing out of fruit or bags of chips became an exercise fraught with danger.

Part of what you have to figure out in this life is, Who would I be if I hadn’t been frightened? What hurt me, and what would I be if it hadn’t?

God rest her soul and may she never walk at night

Dear. Lord. Fortune has well and truly vomited down my front in the form of Mr. Lockwood. As

Sometimes I have thought I was lonely and it turned out I was in reality wanting a snack, just like sometimes I have thought I was mad and it turned out I was actually wearing too many sweaters.

Let's have the baddish one first,' George said. 'I prefer my misery to come at me in stages, so I can acclimatize on the way.

All my life I have overheard, all my life I have listened to what people will let slip when they think you are part of their we. A we is so powerful. It is the most corrupt and formidable institution on earth. Its hands are full of the crispest and most persuasive currency. Its mouth is full of received, repeating language. The we closes its ranks to protect the space inside it, where the air is different. It does not protect people. It protects its own shape.

When you go out hunting wicked spirits, it's the simple things that matter most. The silvered point of your rapier flashing in the dark; the iron filings scattered on the floor; the sealed canisters of best Greek Fire, ready as a last resort... But tea bags, brown and fresh and plenty of them, and made (for preference) by Pitkin Brothers of Bond Street, are perhaps the simplest and best of all. OK, they may not save your life like a sword-tip or an iron circle can, and they haven't the protective power of a sudden wall of fire. But they do provide something just as vital. They help keep you sane.

Penelope Fittes—” “Has got nothing whatsoever to do with it, as you well know. It was Lockwood who came knocking on your door, and that’s why you considered the proposal, and let’s face it, that’s why you said yes.

The future of intelligence must be about search, while the future of ignorance must be about the inability to evaluate information.

There is still a real life to be lived, there are still real things to be done.

. . . Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what's inside you, to make your soul grow. Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you're Count Dracula. Here's an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don't do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don't tell anybody what you're doing. Don't show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK? Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals [sic]. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what's inside you, and you have made your soul grow.

Who says I’m dying? Did you see the amount of sheer effort it took me to escape the land of the dead? I’m not going back in now!

At last! Am I glad to see you! Right, stab this guy quickly, and let's be going.

This is what the Problem means,” he went on. “This is the effect it has. Lives lost, loved ones taken before their time. And then we hide our dead behind iron walls and leave them to the thorns and ivy. We lose them twice over, Lucy. Death’s not the worst of it. We turn our faces away.

Capitalism! It was important to hate it, even though it was how you got money. Slowly, slowly, she found herself moving toward a position so philosophical even Jesus couldn’t have held it: that she must hate capitalism while at the same time loving film montages set in department stores.

Is it just me,' Kipps said, 'or does that boy need punching?' 'It's not just you.

His face was uniquely slapable - a nun would have ached to punch him - while his backside cried out to heaven for a well-placed kick.

George,' I croaked, 'are you okay?' 'No. Someone's buttocks are flattening my foot.' I shifted my position irritably.

There was a profound silence, abruptly broken by an enormously loud rumble from George's stomach. Plaster didn't actually fall from the ceiling, but it was close.

Strange how close the darkness is, even when things seem brightest. Even in the glare of a summer noon, when the sidewalk bakes and iron fences are hot to the touch, the shadows are still with us. They congregate in doorways and porches, and under bridges, and beneath the brims of gentlemen’s hats so you cannot see their eyes. There is darkness in our mouths and ears; in our bags and wallets; within the swing of men’s jackets and beneath the flare of women’s skirts. We carry it around with us, the dark, and its influence stains us deep.

I never told my love vocally still.

Lockwood gave a sudden exclamation; when I looked at him, his eyes were shining. 'On second thoughts, we can scrap my last suggestion,' he said. 'Stuff the mingling. Who wants to do that? Boring. George - this library. Where is it?

I was having dark thoughts about waffles.

Grant that I may radiate Thy Light, Thy Love, Thy Healing, Thy Joy, and Thy Peace to all those around me and all those in my thoughts this day and ever more.

Previously these communities were imposed on us, along with their mental weather. Now we chose them—or believed that we did. A person might join a site to look at pictures of her nephew and five years later believe in a flat earth.

Our eyes adjusted; we gazed at what was in the room. And then I felt the floor pitch under me, as if we were suddenly at sea. George cleared his throat. I put out my hand to clench his arm. Lockwood stood slightly behind us, waiting. "Your parents?" I was the first to find my voice. "Close," Anthony Lockwood said. "My sister.

You're not our leader,' Dave said. 'No, but I know what I'm doing, which is a nice alternative.' - Lucy

I suggest we go into business together. ‘Carlyle and Skull,’ we’d call it, or possibly ‘Skull and Co.’ Yes, that’s it, with a little picture of me over the door. I can see it now….

The people who lived in the portal were often compared to those legendary experiment rats who kept hitting a button over and over to get a pellet. But at least the rats were getting a pellet, or the hope of a pellet, or the memory of a pellet. When we hit the button, all we were getting was to be more of a rat.

The question for someone who was raised in a closed circle and then leaves it, is what is the us, and what is the them, and how do you ever move from one to the other?

May the world be kind to you, and may your own thoughts be gentle upon yourself.

In my eyes, refusing cake is an immoral act.

to live in a country where someone can say “the massacre” and you don’t have to ask which one.

What do you mean you've been spying on me, with this thing in my hand that is an eye?

Back in 1999, she had watched five episodes of The Sopranos and immediately wanted to be involved in organized crime. Not the shooting part, the part where they all sat around in restaurants.

Has anyone got any bandages? I've just split my sides laughing.

Because you're unique . You shine like a beacon, attracting the attention of all dark things." It chuckled. "Why do you think I'm chatting with you?

He did not want to live in the world he had made, but when it came right down to it, did any of us?

Modern womanhood was more about rubbing snail mucus on your face than she had thought it would be. But it had always been something, hadn’t it? Taking drops of arsenic. Winding bandages around the feet. Polishing your teeth with lead. It was so easy to believe you freely chose the paints, polishes, and waist-trainers of your own time, while looking back with tremendous pity to women of the past in their whalebones; that you took the longest strides your body was capable of, while women of the past limped forward on broken arches.

White people, who had the political educations of potatoes - lumpy, unseasoned, and biased towards the Irish - were suddenly feeling compelled to speak out about injustice. This happened once every forty years on average, usually after a period when folk music became popular again. When folk music became popular again, it reminded people that they had ancestors, and then, after a considerable delay, that their ancestors had done bad things.

The magic words for a great relationship are, “I love you just the way you are.

She was so radiant, it was like the other-light was already on her.

Ignoring the whispers of the skull, which kept suggesting different, unlikely kitchen utensils that could be used for murder, I sketched out a map of the room.

Lucy, I’m a malevolent skull, without an ounce of compassion. You’ve got to be worried if I’m feeling sorry for you.

Whatever the cost, as long as you’re in my company, be sure I’ll always be there for you.

My father despises cats. He believes them to be Democrats. He considers them to be little mean hillary clintons covered all over with feminist legfur. Cats would have abortions, if given half a chance. Cats would have abortions for fun. Consequently our own soft sinner, a soulful snowshoe named Alice, will stay shut in the bedroom upstairs, padding back and forth on cashmere paws, campaigning for equal pay, educating me about my reproductive system, and generally plotting the downfall of all men.

Lockwood sat up awkwardly, adjusting his Bubble-Wrapped loops of chain. 'We're in good shape,' he said. 'We've lost the heavy duty chains and the stuff in the bags, but we've got our rapiers, iron, and silver seals. And we've found what we wanted now.' I stared at the clean, calm surface of the door. 'Why couldn't it come after us? Ghosts can pass through walls.' Lockwood shrugged. 'In some cases a Visitor is tied so completely to the room where it met its death that it no longer has any conception of there being any adjacent space at all. So...when we left its hunting ground, it was as if we ceased to exist, as if we ceased to be....' I looked at him. 'You haven't really got a clue, have you?' 'No.

It was higher and shriller than Holly’s, so we knew that it was Kipps.

Oh, we'll suffer in silence. You've given us plenty of practice at that.

It was a time of beginnings and a time of endings.

They were hot, itchy, and hard to see out of, plus the wool covered our mouths and made it difficult to speak. Aside from that, it was a joy to wear them.

I'm not interested in heaven unless my anger gets to go there too. I'm not interested in a happy eternity unless I get to spend an eternity on anger first. Let me speak for the meek and say that we don't want the earth, if that's where all the bodies are buried. If we are resurrected at the end of the world, I want us to assemble with a military click, I want us to come together as an army against what happened to us here. I want us to bring down the enemy of our suffering once and for all, and I want us to loot the pockets, and I want us to take baths in the blood.

Lockwood didn’t speak until everything was quiet again. “I know you’re worrying about me, Luce,” he said. “But you really mustn’t. These things happen when you’re an agent. You’ve been snared by ghosts in the past, haven’t you? There was the one that made the bloody footprints, and the thing in the tunnels below the Aickmere Brothers store. But it’s fine, because I helped you then, and you’ve helped me now. We’re there to help each other. If we do that, we’ll get through.” Which was a lovely thing to say, and it made me feel a little warmer. I just had to hope it was true.

I know all women are supposed to be strong enough now to strangle presidents and patriarchies between their powerful thighs, but it doesn't work that way. Many of us were actually affected, by male systems and male anger, in ways we cannot always articulate or overcome. Sometimes, when the ceiling seems especially low and the past especially close, I think to myself, I did not make it out. I am still there in that place of diminishment, where that voice an octave deeper than mine is telling me what I am.

The epiphany was simply tucked away for consideration after we were back on campus. Sometimes a revelation comes with a flash of heavenly light and a booming voice - and sometimes it is jotted in a sun-bleached spiral notebook.

Every day their attention must turn, like the shine on a school of fish, all at once, toward a new person to hate. Sometimes the subject was a war criminal, but other times it was someone who made a heinous substitution in guacamole.

You are my ground and you are my rainbow. You are my butterfly and you are my ecstasy. You are the start of my journeys and always my destination. You are my home - the place to which I always return.

His rapier was at his belt, glittering as he swung. He reached down, ripped the sword clear. I jumped over a slashing frond of plasm, spun round with the water bottle in my hand. I hurled it across to Lockwood. George threw his rapier to me. Watch this now. Sword and bottle, sailing through the air, twin trajectories, arching beautifully through the mass of swirling tendrils towards Lockwood and me. Lockwood held out his hand. I held out mine. Remember I said there was that moment of sweet precision when we gelled perfectly as a team? Yeah, well. This wasn't it. The rapier shot past, missing me by miles. It skidded halfway across the floor. The bottle struck Lockwood plumb in the centre of his forehead, knocking him through the window. There was a moment's pause. 'Is he dead?' the skulls voice said 'Yay! Oh. No, he's hanging onto the shutters. Shame. Still, this is defiantly the funniest thing I've ever seen. You three really are incompetence on a stick

It's a curious thing with George. With his glasses off, his eyes looked small and weak - blinky and a bit baffled, like an unintelligent sheep that's taken a wrong turn. But when he put them on again, they went all sharp and steely, more like the eyes of an eagle that eats dumb sheep for breakfast.

[Belva] Lockwood sought more than suffrage. She urged full political and civil rights for all women. Though she could not vote for president, she twice ran for the office herself, pointing out that nothing in the Constitution barred a woman's candidacy. (She took that bold step 124 years before Hillary Rodham Clinton first became a contender for the Democratic Party's nomination.) Explaining why she entered the race, she wrote in a letter to her future running mate, Marietta Stow: 'We shall never have equal rights until we take them, nor equal respect until we command it.

The desire to describe voice, gesture, skin color, is a desire to eat, take over, make into part of the pattern. I am happy every time to see a writer fail at this. I am happy every time to see real personhood resist our tricks. I am happy to see bodies insist that they are not shut up in this book, they are elsewhere. The tomb is empty, rejoice, he is not here. •

It is probably the last conversation like this the seminarian and I will have. After his ordination, particular friendships with women will be discouraged. I understand why, but in a wider sense, it is frightening. If you are not friends with women, they are theoretical to you.

Every day we were seeing new evidence that suggested it was the portal that had allowed the dictator to rise to power. This was humiliating. It would be like discovering that the Vietnam War was secretly caused by ham radios, or that Napoleon was operating exclusively on the advice of a parrot named Brian.

Looks?” the skull said. “Who cares about that? It’s superficial. Outward appearance doesn’t interest me at all. Why do you think I hang around with you?” It chuckled. “Insult aside, that’s just one way in which I’m superior to every one of you, except for Cubbins.” I blinked. “What? Why? What’s George got to do with anything?” “What a person looks like doesn’t bother him much, or hadn’t you noticed?

Lockwood stepped aside, his boots crunching across the salt, to stand and study the paper beneath the light. No such luck with George; he came in close, his eyes bulging so much behind his spectacles, they almost pressed against the glass. 'I can't *believe* you did that, Lucy. You're crazy! *Purposefully* freeing a ghost!' 'It was an experiment,' I said. 'Why are you complaining? You're always messing about with that stupid jar of yours.' 'There's no comparison. I keep that ghost *in* in the jar. Anyway, it's scientific research. I do it under carefully controlled conditions.' 'Carefully controlled? I found it in the bathtub the other day!' 'That's right. I was testing the ghost's reaction to heat.' 'And to bubble bath? There were bubbles all over the jar. You put some nice soapy fragrance in that water, and...' I stared at him. 'Do you get in the tub with it, George?' His face flushed. 'No, I do not. Not as a rule. I - I was saving time. I was just getting in myself when it occurred to me I could do a useful experiment about the resistance of ectoplasm to warmth. I wanted to see if it would contract...' He waved his hands wildly in the air. 'Wait! Why am I explaining myself to *you*? You just unleashed a ghost in our house!

Back in her childhood she used to have holy feelings, knifelike flashes that laid the earth open like a blue watermelon, when the sun came down to her like an elevator she was sure she could step inside and be lifted up, up, past all bad luck, past every skipped thirteenth floor in every building human beings had ever built. She would have these holy days and walk home from school and think, After this I will be able to be nice to my mother, but she never ever was. After this I will be able to talk only about what matters, life and death and what comes after, but she still went on about the weather.

The things she wanted the baby to know seemed small, so small. How it felt to go to a grocery store on vacation; to wake at three a.m. and run your whole life through your fingertips; first library card; new lipstick; a toe going numb for two months because you wore borrowed shoes to a friend’s wedding; Thursday; October; “She’s Like the Wind” in a dentist’s office; driver’s license picture where you look like a killer; getting your bathing suit back on after you go to the bathroom; touching a cymbal for sound and then touching it again for silence; playing house in the refrigerator box; letting a match burn down to the fingerprints; one hand in the Scrabble bag and then I I I O U E A; eyes racing to the end of Villette (skip the parts about the crétin, sweetheart); hamburger wrappers on a road trip; the twist of a heavy red apple in an orchard; word on the tip of the tongue; the portal, but just for a minute.

He looked like a kid caught making an angel in the snow, except his glasses had been blown off and one of his hands was bleeding. He breathed heavily; his belly rose and fell. I knelt close. 'George?' A groan, a cough. 'It's too late. Leave me....Let me sleep....' I shook him firmly, slapped the side of his face. 'George, you've got to wake up! George, *please.* Are you okay?' An eye opened. 'Ow. That cheek was the one part of me that *wasn't* sore.' 'Here, look - your glasses.' I scooped them out of the ash, put them on his chest.