Nick Cutter

It is a fact that cannot be denied: the wickedness of others becomes our own wickedness because it kindles something evil in our own hearts.

In such ways are friendships built. In tiny moments, in secrets shared.

—some men are incapable of offering a sincere apology, Max realized; something in their nature refuses it, so instead they frame it as an accident, a misunderstanding, or a “sorry you’re so upset” sort of thing that placed subtle blame on the other person for making such a big deal.

All bodies fail, he realized. They fall to pieces in pieces, bit by torturous bit, and a man had to watch it fall apart around him.

The stranger didn’t wholly resemble a man anymore. More like something a dull-witted child might have drawn with a crayon. His body was lines. His arms were scribbles. His fingers were calligraphic spiders. The skin draped his rib cage with terrible intimacy, pinching around each rib to show the striation of muscle

And now, in a way that was somehow obscene, Max would witness this man during the most private moment any human being would ever have: the moment of his death.

They were a mob, and the mob ruled.

The helpless fear of an adult—which ultimately looked not much different than the helpless fear of an infant

Another thing about animals: they had no conception that the creatures who fed them might be the same ones who could do them such great harm.

Shelley’s voice, at one with the wind: “What would you rather, Eef? Put up with a little pain or get your eyes eaten out by worms? That’s what they do, you know—they save the eyes for last.”