“Bah! You are so not the romantic you led me to believe. For that, I’m going to plague you from the next life. Every time it rains, that’ll be me, trying to knock some spirituality into that thick head of yours.”

“When life tries to define you with its hardship, you gotta push back, look it straight in the eye and say, ‘No matter what life throws at me, I’m going to keep telling myself that I will overcome.’ And every time you own that truth, you write your own life script.”

“I just want some space to myself every now and then. Every time I’m with you I have this sense that you want something from me.”

“I’m a selfish prick, and I want to be the greatest fuck of your life and ruin you for every man who comes after me. But I’m not a mind reader, so I need some help.”

“One of you guys is going to have to feed the vampiric lawyer some blood and it can’t be me. (Caleb)Why? You afraid of a little bite?I’m anemic. (Nick)And I’m Catholic. Doesn’t that knock me out of the running? (Nick)”

“Look, I get it. I’m a white, heterosexual man. It’s really easy for me to say, ‘Oh, wow, wasn’t the nineteenth century terrific?’ But try this. Imagine the scene: It’s pouring rain against a thick window. Outside, on Baker Street, the light from the gas lamps is so weak that it barely reaches the pavement. A fog swirls in the air, and the gas gives it a pale yellow glow. Mystery brews in every darkened corner, in every darkened room. And a man steps out into that dim, foggy world, and he can tell you the story of your life by the cut of your shirtsleeves. He can shine a light into the dimness, with only his intellect and his tobacco smoke to help him. Now. Tell me that’s not awfully romantic?”