“Not only did the angry villagers hound their monsters to the edge of town, they reproached her for being vulnerable to the torches.”

“There is in every village a torch - the teacher; and an extinguisher - the priest.”

“Middling monsters died at the point of pitchforks, burned with torches, or at the butt of silver-capped canes wielded by angry, geriatric Poles. Middling people were dime-a-dozen, emptied souls, shorn sheeple, human husks. A good monster didn’t worry about what it was doing; it just did it. A true predator didn’t worry about guilt, or being popular, or anything. It just cruised along, living for the kill, surviving. A good person, well, she’d put a bullet in her head or weigh her feet down and throw herself into the Chicago River, holding her breath until she went to the sludgy, filthy bottom, and had to open wide and breathe water until she died.”

“When a monster stopped behaving like a monster, did it stop being a monster? Did it become something else?”

“A monster that refused, sometimes, to behave like a monster. When a monster stopped behaving like a monster, did it stop being a monster? Did it become something else?”

“A monster always has a vulnerability”