Suspense Book Quotes

There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time.

Never Let anyone tell you that you can't; show them that you can.

He desperately tried to think of a story to explain his involvement in her sudden appearance, without mentioning the book of magic in his possession.  

Books are keys that open many doors.

Life was better than he expected with his new Italian family inheritance, and it felt good to take a deep breath without fear of someone attacking him or his family.

She was a ray of sunshine, a warm summer rain, a bright fire on a cold winter’s day, and now she could be dead because she had tried to save the man she loved.

I’ll tell the Chief and he’ll squash you like the little flea-ridden castrated cock you are.

I wanted to thank you for saving my life. I am still puzzled about your motives
though. Was it revenge against Zedan for rejecting you?”
“You insult me. It seems that you think of everybody in the same lowly terms you
think of yourself. If there is anybody I should hate for Zedan rejecting me, it should be
you. He was only doing what is expected of him in our society.”
“You mean you don't hate me?” This was a new revelation to Brown. It worried him.
He was used to hate, he could deal with it, but this he could not understand, he had used
the girl ruthlessly and yet she did not hate him.

I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said, hugging him closely. She knew better than to ask for details. He almost never talked about the difficult parts of his police work. He said that he didn’t want to bring that home with him. 

He would at least be remembered in his cultures history books. Destroying two of his emperors revered structures, on the same day, would not go unmentioned.

Spouses and lovers may come and go, but our children are our children forever.

Your life is a book; make it a bestseller.

Favorite Quotations. I speak my mind because it hurts to bite my tongue. The worth of a book is measured by what you carry away from it. It's not over till it's over. Imagination is everything. All life is an experiment. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls the butterfly.

Upon arriving at the murder scene, they saw Deputy Sheriff Peewee Stubblefield pacing back and forth on the front walk. He stopped and smirked as Sheriff Roosevelt Baker braked the patrol car. He emitted a noise sounding more like a groan than a sigh.

Choose your partners wisely. Always use protection, and always protect your heart.

He used his large shoulders and movements to impose his dominance over others as he strutted around but his facial expressions were a giveaway to people like Maeve who was born into a gritty group of native born fighting Irish. While many saw him as a man who worked his way up to power and influence and attained success that others fail to achieve, she saw him as a sham. He didn’t acquire loyalty by goodwill, but by corruption, fear, and loathing.

I bade her ‘night night,’ and I was already waiting to meet her.

Have a look around, my pretty, we are surrounded by Death in all forms – just the two of us are still alive –

Oh honey, someday a real man is going to make you see stars and you won't even be looking at the sky." Excerpt from Grace Willow's Last Minute Bride

This life is a virtual simulation game where you can win or lose, you can continue playing for the rest of your life or join the club. You decide! You only have to respect one rule because your stay in the human farm will depend on that, continue playing until the end no matter how many times you are brought into this reality, so stay awake with your eyes wide open and your mouth tight shut." Welcome to the game of life, welcome to the matrix.

There isn’t any particular relationship between the messages, except that the author has chosen them carefully, so that, when seen all at once, they produce an image of life that is beautiful and surprising and deep. There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time.

Modern tyranny is terror management. When the terrorist attack comes, remember that authoritarians exploit such events in order to consolidate power. The sudden disaster that requires the end of checks and balances, the dissolution of opposition parties, the suspension of freedom of expression, the right to a fair trial, and so on, is the oldest trick in the Hitlerian book. Do not fall for it.

Junior finds what he’s seeking in a swale between two ridges. He glasses down at the elk from a hillside aflame with autumn color. The animal strides through the clearing about five hundred yards due east, dipping its head now and then to nibble on receding grass that soon will disappear for the winter.

Ernie bragged he could shoot the eyes out of a mosquito, you said. Today I mean to make him prove it.

Harlan chuckles to himself and shakes his head, as though enjoying a joke only he has heard. ‘Now I guess it’s only fair to warn you,’ he says. ‘This is not going to go the way you want it to.

He reached into his jacket pocket, as if looking for a guide book, but pulled out an automatic handgun instead. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he told her.

The current needs of survival leave little time for luxuries like sentimentality. It is, he figures, a kind of mercy. No time to dwell on what was lost when there is more yet to protect.

When it’s over, all the equipment used is destroyed, even your clothing. Once it’s over every operator wipes his cranial hard drive clean of every moment of the mission, and you collectively go into blackout mode.

I remember that night as clearly as you do. I was fearful if you tried to take it further. -And yet, there was something inside me, some small hope, -that you would.

Is Cade a criminal, a sinner, or a biblical purveyor of justice? Your answer is your own. I cannot say whether or not you made the correct choice.

And they...LIVED! Life isn't always ‘Happily Ever After’, rather, loving FOREVER, regardless.

He was a boy in love with another man’s woman and took on a job bigger than he was.

Please,” I gasped out. He just brushed his lips against my jaw, my neck, my mouth. “Tamlin,” I begged. He palmed my breast, his thumb flicking over my nipple. I cried out, and he buried himself in me with a mighty stroke. For a moment, I was nothing, no one. Then we were fused, two hearts beating as one, and I promised myself it always would be that way as he pulled out a few inches, the muscles of his back flexing beneath my hands, and then slammed back into me. Again and again. I broke and broke against him as he moved, as he murmured my name and told me he loved me. And when that lightning once more filled my veins, my head, when I gasped out his name, his own release found him. I gripped him through each shuddering wave, savoring the weight of him, the feel of his skin, his strength. For a while, only the rasp of our breathing filled the room. I frowned as he withdrew at last—but he didn’t go far. He stretched out on his side, head propped on a fist, and traced idle circles on my stomach, along my breasts.

Like this book, the dictionary shows you that the word "nervous" means "worried about something" -- you might feel nervous, for instance, if you were served prune ice cream for dessert, because you would be worried that it would taste awful -- whereas the word "anxious" means "troubled by disturbing suspense," which you might feel if you were served a live alligator for dessert, because you would be troubled by the disturbing suspense about whether you would eat your dessert or it would eat you.

They made their toast, leaned back deep into their fine chairs, and in silence gazed at the gorgeous valley down below. It was almost Xanadu, and would have been if Cade were present.

Julie was cold and miserable. The wind whipped up, soughing through the grasses, making mournful music. Now the fog had thickened from broth to gruel between her and the little-traveled farm road.

From the scene arrayed before her now, Tsula knows this new body means something entirely different. The tight bunchings of onlookers in hushed conversation. The watery eyes and mouths covered by fingers. This is how people gather when the dead is one of their own.

Then she tilted the can and dripped the gasoline throughout the old wooden structure. She didn’t have either time or strength to haul the bodies. In a better world, she would have given One a decent burial, and positioned Four in the driver’s seat of her fashionable vehicle, but alas, neither was possible.

I must be getting old; it's getting harder and harder to remember who I owe an apology too anymore.

Antifa was happy to have high school graduates turned out year after year who don’t know a fraction of the essential information that one hundred years ago every sixth-grader knew. The dumber the person, the more malleable and easier to convince they became.

He was one of the lucky ones. He would follow operational orders, but he spoke out if he believed a senior officer was wrong in a moral sense. At a number of points his career might have been truncated because a senior considered him an impertinent malcontent.

Sir, I cannot say I am ninja trained, but I have a brown belt in karate. That was while I was a fourteen-year-old. I have not kept myself in much of a practice, but I know a trick-or-two.

Be calm when the unthinkable arrives. Modern tyranny is terror management. When the terrorist attack comes, remember that authoritarians exploit such events in order to consolidate power. The sudden disaster that requires the end of checks and balances, the dissolution of political parties, the suspension of freedom of expression, the right to a fair trial, and so on, is the oldest trick in the Hitlerian book. DO NOT FALL FOR IT.

In the years that followed, Tsula would find that she could not recall that walk to the edge or the thrust of her legs into the air. Her clearest memory more than twenty years later is of the long, breathless wait as she fell, seemingly forever, and the water swallowing her at last. When she burst from its surface, unhurt, her mind noisy and electric, she grabbed for Jamie and kissed him hard.

Ryan’s passion towards Stephanie surged around the restaurant like lightning from the love-gods and re-ignited her own dormant feelings for Lharkin.

The policemen had covered her thoroughly bruised, cut and naked body with a white cloth. She had bled a thousand cuts.

There are no telegraphs on Tralfamadore. But you're right: each clump of symbols is a brief, urgent message-- describing a situation, a scene. We Tralfamadorians read them all at once, not one after the other. There isn't any particular relationship between all the messages, except that the author has chosen them carefully, so that, when seen all at once, they produce an image of life that is beautiful and surprising and deep. There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time.

A psychiatrist would diagnose Jolene—and possibly every member of Cade Chase’s team—as having a benign form of psychosis. Benign, because she had not experienced a psychotic break. She was far short of being psychotic, but only because her brain and soul allowed her to manage her dissociative behavior well. The unconscious guides such people.

What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at once.There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. When seen all at once, they produce an image of life that is beautiful and surprising and deep.

People in Washington love to use the word ‘systemic.’ You know, ‘We’re going to attack the ‘systemic’ causes’ of this or that.’ That’s supposed to convince us they’re thinking many layers more deeply than us. But where it counts, they strike out.

It was a limbo of an existence; he couldn’t have what he once had, and he was never able to move on. His memories were his only company.

He reached out to touch her cool flesh…bright flashes of heated fear soared through him as if his soul was dipped in the boiling liquids of purgatory.

The commander stopped in front of Audray. “Well, isn’t this a special day. We have the temple, this chamber I never knew about, and the woman who stole my husband!

Feel it, deal with it, then throw it away

Never give up, Never surrender!!!!! If you think you can't, then you must, if you must, then you can..Tony Robbins

Night Realm. He is the one who had the power to change the Empians: the Dark Descent.” She turned to him. “The fact he’s beckoning you means a lot. For one: you are not on his side, and he wants you to be.

Then she saw the animal, a German Shepherd, from the looks of him at this remove. He probably belonged on one of the farms out here, where owners don’t feel obligated to pen or chain their animals. Suddenly she saw he was coming without surcease directly toward her. He was still a long way off, but she was now terrified.

The images of the dead woman flew into his mind like a bat that had just feasted, blood dripping from its fangs where it wanted to seep into his subconscious and awaken a hidden side of him.

Pain seared through Cassandra as if the Gods answered by slicing her belly with a serrated knife, wanting to extract the horror from inside of her before she could let it loose into the world.

There were adventure stories supplied with cloths for mopping your brow, thrillers containing pressed leaves of soothing valerian to be sniffed when the suspense became too great, and books with stout locks sealed by the Atlantean censorship authorities ("Sale permitted, reading prohibited!"). One shop sold nothing but 'half' works that broke off in the middle because their author had died while writing them; another specialised in novels whose protagonists were insects. I also saw a Wolperting shop that sold nothing but books on chess and another patronised exclusively by dwarfs with blond beards, all of whom wore eye-shades.

Somehow I could lose myself in the ocean the same way I could lose myself in a good book. Maybe it was because both involved suspension--a suspension of weight, a suspension of disbelief--a willingness to surrender to something greater than oneself.

Support Imagination. Read a book.

Not even her lover’s embrace could penetrate the chill that founds its way deep into her soul.

How can you help me and protect me when you lie to me? How can I be a good man when you don’t have faith that I will be one?

I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Ryan said. “I don’t know who or what I am anymore. How can I help and heal people when I am drinking their blood!

It was this dichotomy of one’s perspective towards a child that could drive a parent insane.

I feel a tingling sensation in my body, and I can almost feel her lips in my mind now. I think she likes me, but I need to be sure.

Call out in need. Be merciless. Kill to live!

The shriek cut thinly though the drizzling dimness, holding for a long moment. At last it broadened and dropped to the old.

Akshay felt mesmerized, looking at her full lips and beautiful skin. He knew she was a powerful personality, but he was slowly getting to know her better. He was trying to look through her imposed image of a strong p-type and of a go-getter.

Suddenly, she was trembling, and her anticipation turned to terror. She fought to control the preposterous thought that the house was about to swallow her up and she’d never see daylight again.

Willie approached them solo at first, smiling and speaking Spanish. He asked them how they were doing and whether there were any hot chicks inside. Then he said, “Here, let me help you.” With that, he delivered an uppercut so strong it felt as if the punch ended only when it struck roly-poly’s backbone. Rufus came up behind the second guy and administered a kidney punch that would have the little fellow peeing blood for a month.

So, Kate, Russell and I drove to the station and there was Paul, sitting in a chair in the foyer, looking like he always did: no better, no worse. Except that he wasn’t sitting in the chair. He hovered above it. You could have easily slid a thick book under him.

He held his head back to let the rain fall on his face with a small grin. When he opened his eyes, he looked across the crowd, straight at Cassandra. All the rain in the world could not wash down the growing heat of her passion for him.

I do not possess the ability to draw or paint. I can’t sing or dance. I can’t knit or sew. But I am an artist. I have the ability to put onto paper, words that tell an intriguing story. I am a writer. A writer is someone who, with just words, can paint a beautiful picture. A writer can open up a world of imagination you didn’t realize was possible. When you open up a book and become so consumed in the story, you feel like you’re a part of it… you’re standing next to that character and feeling the same way that character feels, That’s the art of a writer. I am an artist. My inspiration is the world around me. My paintbrush is my words. My easel is my computer. My canvas is the mind of my reader.

There it was, burned into the text box, their code: “Sword of the Spirit.” They’d both attended weekly Bible study at the home of a lay person, and after the session one evening they talked about the expression that ultimately would become their code. They interpreted it to mean ‘the Word of God.

Be thankful for the people who have stood by you and cheered you on, but don't forget to be thankful for the ones that said it could not be done. Writing a book is no small task and even the skeptics can help you get where you want to be!

Pack had decided how he could help. But he could not fully explain himself to Cade. No way. There are problems, and there are big problems. This was a big problem. Big because it was risky, and big because Pack now confronted a moral dilemma. Were he not to assist Cade, there was a good chance the young woman might die, or be subjected to antifa brutality.

He wasn’t a reader of anything serious, but he had set himself the task of reading Walter Isaacson’s biography of Jobs, after which he entertained the idea of committing himself to a stay on the subcontinent in a hermitage to learn about Indian religions. He could find a yogi to give him the spiritual insights he sought. That would get him away from his boring wife and kids for a year at least, and who knew, maybe he could finagle a way never to come back.

You’re making me think of something else now, but it’s related. I love watching little kids play. No matter where you look in the world, you’ll observe that kids are programmed to play. They learn through play. I think if we’re lucky we never forget how to play. And, I tell you, Gwinlyn, that’s one of the things I find most attractive about you. You like to play, and you like to play with me. Unfortunately, too many women I’ve met prefer to be grown up all the time. They take themselves too seriously.

…but I don’t think I’m the only person who is tired of books and movies full of paper-doll characters you don’t care about, who have no self-respect and no respect for anybody or any institution…..And I don’t want to sound preachy or Victorian, but I’m tired of amorality in fiction and in real life. Immorality is a fascinating human dilemma that creates suspense for the readers and tension for the characters, but where is the tension in an amoral situation? When people have no personal code, nothing is threatening and nothing is meaningful.

That wasn’t fair Sally.” “Why not? Do you think you can stay self-righteous forever. You needed a little dose of reality.” “Reality usually doesn’t include aggravated assault, breaking and entering—twice, and illegal surveillance Sally. You did that on purpose.

He said to the big fellow with the taffy hair, “Before we finish off this operation, I need to hit you up with some ideas.” At that moment, Cade noticed how physically similar Preston was to Merlin Olsen, the NFL great, actor, and all-round good man. He marveled at Preston, the man who couldn’t be happier, as he twirled his head from monitor to monitor, adjusting joysticks and pressing buttons in this claustrophobic workspace.

Blue light streamed out from her hands and pounded into the desert. An enormous mass of sand flew into the air, leaving behind a gaping hole. The officers closest to it fell back on the ground from the energy pushing up into the air as if the earth was exhaling a breath held for hundreds of years.

Edward unlocked a drawer of his desk where he kept valuables, opened it, and withdrew the Buck knife Amelia had given him a few days after he’d turned eighteen, about a month before they were to be married. He stared straight ahead, feeling its weight in his hand. He looked down at the knife, opened it, and scraped his finger lightly across the blade. Still sharp. He had used it for only a month, but after Amelia left him at the altar, he stored it away, rarely touching it. Today, however, he wanted to remember the pain.

The truth had always been there, but he had been afraid to delve into his past. It only eventually caught up to him anyway, like a relentless monster, gobbling up his entire life, the bones having been spat out, leaving behind a pathetic existence.

Gigi’s actual name was Jolene Kraken. If her penetralia was exposed, even Gigi herself would be surprised. She was smart, aloof, indifferent to the opinions of others. Maybe she was amoral. Maybe because self-analysis wasn’t her strong suit. Neither did self-analysis interest her. Her goal as a young woman was to make serious money, enough to set her up for a life in which she could romp and stomp through the world doing exactly what she wished. And frequently what she wished was to deliver justice to people with bad intentions. She wanted to hurt people who hurt people.

A perverse sensation glided across his skin. It wanted to search deeper until Ryan understood that this presence wanted to do more than that: it wanted him. Normally he was the one that could touch and get to know objects or people. But this temple was also exercising the same gift on him.

A hand pressed hard against her back. Or was it two? She couldn't remember. All she knew was that one minute, she was waiting restlessly to cross the street, the next she was sprawled in the road, dreading the oncoming car that would hit her any second now.

There isn't any particular relationship between all the messages, except that the author has chosen them carefully, so that, when seen all at once, they produce an image of life that is beautiful and surprising and deep.  There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects.  What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time.

Sand rose into the air, spinning a maelstrom of protection against bullets. She looked up at him: his face contorted with concentration while the wind played with his dark hair. His arms tightened around her until she felt every contour of his body against hers. Her heart raced faster than the churning sand, and her breath was lost as if the vortex siphoned it.

He witnessed the love people throughout the industry had for their animals and for the sport itself. Someone once snapped a picture depicting his rictus of wonderment as he listened to a stable mate trace the lineage of a horse in a neighboring stall. Sires and dams, by name, for generations back. Wil could tell the lad wasn’t fabricating those names. We remember what we love.

But there's also the fact that in my experience most of my readers are first and foremost plain old-fashioned readers. Good readers. They're not looking for cozy brand-name output and that means I don't have to give it to 'em. They're not lazy and have little patience with pre-fab beach-bag books or Oprah's opine du jour. They're questers. They know that every now and then you're gonna get lucky and pure gold like King and Straub's Black House will simply drop into your lap at the local supermarket but after that, if your bent is horror and suspense fiction, you're gonna have to get your hands dirty and root around for more. Find a Ramsey Campbell or an Edward Lee. They expect diversity and search it out. They want what all good readers want - to be taken somewhere in a book or a story that's really worth visiting for a while. Maybe even worth thinking about after. If that place happens to scare the hell out of you all the better.

Even given the ability of black clothing to trick the eye into believing the wearer is slimmer than he truly is, Mario still appeared to be a rolling tube of sausage with an immense bulge in the middle regions of his ill-tended anatomy. His skull was similarly immense, though not likely because it housed a large cranium. The only hair on his head was the oily curl of black hairs that circled the skull about the height of mid-ear. His eyebrows were ponderous, great furry awnings over the eyelids.

Rereading, an operation contrary to the commercial and ideological habits of our society, which would have us "throw away" the story once it has been consumed ("devoured"), so that we can then move on to another story, buy another book, and which is tolerated only in certain marginal categories of readers (children, old people, and professors), rereading is here suggested at the outset, for it alone saves the text from repetition (those who fail to reread are obliged to read the same story everywhere), multiplies it in its variety and its plurality: rereading draws the text out of its internal chronology ("this happens before or after that") and recaptures a mythic time (without before or after); it contests the claim which would have us believe that the first reading is a primary, naïve, phenomenal reading which we will only, afterwards, have to "explicate," to intellectualize (as if there were a beginning of reading, as if everything were not already read: there is no first reading, even if the text is concerned to give us that illusion by several operations of suspense, artifices more spectacular than persuasive); rereading is no longer consumption, but play (that play which is the return of the different).

The best sentences orient us, like stars in the sky, like landmarks on a trail. They remain the test, whether or not to read something. The most compelling narrative, expressed in sentences with which I have no chemical reaction, or an adverse one, leaves me cold. In fiction, plenty do the job of conveying information, rousing suspense, painting characters, enabling them to speak. But only certain sentences breathe and shift about, like live matter in soil. The first sentence of a book is a handshake, perhaps an embrace. Style and personality are irrelevant. They can be formal or casual. They can be tall or short or fat or thin. They can obey the rules or break them. But they need to contain a charge. A live current, which shocks and illuminates.

I write for you, for me, for the 70% of us who make up the fabric of society: ordinary people with extraordinary lives, who play the roles of parents, siblings, children, neighbors and friends. We are those who work and study with tenacity, those who with effort and dedication bring sustenance to our homes, my novels and stories of horror, suspense and mystery are designed for the emerging generations, for those readers who seek freshness in literature and who feel distant from traditional literature, with its labyrinth of ostentatious and complex words that often alienate the average citizen..., I write for the marginalized, for those who have felt that literature does not offer them a mirror in which to reflect themselves, for those who seek in the pages a refuge or an acknowledgement of their existence, I write for the free and critical spirits, for the innate rebels who question the structures and narratives of our civilization, I write for the dreamers who imagine a world beyond the reach of politics and corporations, for those who resist being molded by the great machines of entertainment that seek to numb our minds and wills; It is my voice, through writing, that seeks to resonate with yours, inviting you on a literary journey where together we explore the confines of our reality and the abysses of our imagination.

Pick one,” he says just as I reach the handle. “One what?” He nods toward the shelves. I run my hands over my face in frustration. “You drive me insane.” I move toward the shelf and look over his collection. I pause when I see a few familiar titles. “You have a whole romance section.” I giggle and pull a book from the shelf. When I open it, a receipt falls to the floor. Inspecting it, I see he’s just bought ten books and spent a few hundred dollars opting for some pricy hardcovers over paperbacks. “You just bought these?” Upon closer inspection, I see most of them are romance titles by my favorite indies. There’s also a few suspense and an older historical, all of them titles from a familiar list that I wrote on a bookmark in my bedroom. When he was in my house, he had to have snooped in my room while Sean was distracting me. “You looked through my stuff?” He keeps his eyes on his book. It’s a stupid question. And the answer is so obvious, but I can’t help myself. “You bought these for me?” Silence. And again, I’m floating off the ground as he continues to read, feigning indifference. But I know differently now, and it changes everything. Beneath that mask is a man who’s been paying attention, very close attention to me. He turns another page and pulls an empty pillow closer to his shoulder. He wants me to read, with him, in his bed. And what better way to pass a day in stormy weather than curling up with a gorgeous man and getting lost in the words.

I do not pretend, of course, that I have never done it; mere politeness forces one to it; there are women who sulk and grow bellicose unless one at least makes the motions of kissing them. But what I mean is that I have never found the act a tenth part as agreeable as poets, the authors of musical comedy librettos, and (on the contrary side) chaperones and the gendarmerie make it out. The physical sensation, far from being pleasant, is intensely uncomfortable—the suspension of respiration, indeed, quickly resolves itself into a feeling of suffocation—and the posture necessitated by the approximation of lips and lips is unfailingly a constrained and ungraceful one. Theoretically, a man kisses a woman perpendicularly, with their eyes, those "windows of the soul," synchronizing exactly. But actually, on account of the incompressibility of the nasal cartilages, he has to incline either his or her head to an angle of at least 60 degrees, and the result is that his right eye gazes insanely at the space between her eyebrows, while his left eye is fixed upon some vague spot behind her. An instantaneous photograph of such a maneuvre, taken at the moment of incidence, would probably turn the stomach of even the most romantic man, and force him, in sheer self-respect, to renounce kissing as he has renounced leap-frog and walking on stilts.

It was the same book, every day. The pages of said book were rounded and soft where Young Sam had chewed them, but to one person in this nursery this was the book of books, the greatest story ever told. Vimes didn't need to read it any more. He knew it by heart. It was called Where's My Cow? The unidentified complainant had lost their cow. That was the story, really. Page one started promisingly: Where's my cow? Is that my cow? It goes, "Baa!" It is a sheep! That's not my cow! Then the author began to get to grips with their material: Where's my cow? Is that my cow? It goes, "Neigh!" It is a horse! That's not my cow! At this point the author had reached an agony of creation and was writing from the racked depths of their soul. Where's my cow? Is that my cow? It goes, "Hruuugh!" It is a hippopotamus! That's not my cow! This was a good evening. Young Sam was already grinning widely and crowing along with the plot. Eventually, the cow would be found. It was that much of a pageturner. Of course, some suspense was lent by the fact that all other animals were presented in some way that could have confused a kitten, who perhaps had been raised in a darkened room. The horse was standing in front of a hatstand, as they so often did, and the hippo was eating at a trough against which was an upturned pitchfork. Seen from the wrong direction, the tableau might look for just one second like a cow ... Young Sam loved it, anyway. It must have been the most cuddled book in the world. Nevertheless, it bothered Vimes, even though he'd got really good at the noises and would go up against any man in his rendition of the "Hruuugh!" But was this a book for a city kid? When would he ever hear these noises? In the city the only sound those animals would make was "sizzle" But the nursery was full of the conspiracy, with baa-lambs and teddy bears and fluffy ducklings everywhere he looked.