“She couldn’t picture anyone falling madly in love with such a person as Fish. What a name, Fish...Fish: think cold, slippery, detached. Benedict: think dry scholarly monk from the Dark Ages. Denniston: think English preparatory school, stolid country squire. Nothing about his name sounded the least bit romantic.”

“The fish in the creek said nothing. Fish never do. Few people know what fish think about injustice, or anything else.”

“That sounded good,” Daisy said with surprise.“It sounded like a fish vomiting,” Sarah said into the piano.“A charming image,” Honoria remarked.“I don’t think fish do vomit,” Daisy remarked, “and if they did, Idon’t think it would sound like—”

“The next best thing to fishing is thinking about it or talking about it, or both. The well-read angler reflects more vividly on his pastime. And usually fishes better, too. The more you read about fishing, the greater will be your enjoyment, on-stream and off.”

“A man fishes for two reasons: he’s either sport fishing or fishing to eat, which means he’s either going to try to catch the biggest fish he can, take a picture of it, admire it with his buddies and toss it back to sea, or he’s going to take that fish on home, scale it, fillet it, toss it in some cornmeal, fry it up, and put it on his plate. This, I think, is a great analogy for how men seek out women.”

“Her expression almost never changed. Made it hard to tell what she was thinking. But also made her seem separate from the rest of the world. It was like she lived so deep in the ocean even lightcouldn’t reach her. Like a fish that couldn’t see the dark lonely depths, because it was always dreaming about sunlight.”