personification

Ove gives the box a skeptical glance, as if it's a highly dubious sort of box, a box that rides a scooter and wears tracksuit pants and just called Ove "my friend" before offering to sell him a watch.

Your Mom's Car. Think about that. Try to wrap your brain around the supernatural and spiritual implications that the name bears down you. Your Mom's Car, holding its hand out straight, fingers curled, a zombie reaching for your neck.

I like to walk in the woods and see what Mother Nature is wearing.

By December an elastic skin of ice reached out hundreds of miles into the sea, rolling with every wave.

We have a mental emergency here. Our noble pal Sevak has just been wickedly divorced by his mind.

Lady Moon rose an' gazed o'er my busted'n'beautsome Valleys with silv'ry'n'sorryin' eyes, an' the dingos mourned for the died uns.

Hatred is a leech: The thing that sticks to a person's skin; that feeds off them and drains the sap out of one's spirit. It changes a person, and does not leave until it has sucked the last drop of peace from them.

A fox should not be of the jury at a goose's trial.

High productivity and a healthy environment are two unconditionally entwined buddies. Our process allows us to abort any attempts toward crucifying either of the two__ecause as soon as one of them dies, the other follows suit.

In troubled times, one wishes for a sound sleep more than usual, but on the contrary, realizing its amplified importance, sleep smugly impedes all attempts to woo it.

This dull, difficult novel I have brought with me on my trip__ keep trying to read it. I have gone back to it so many times, each time dreading it and each time finding it no better than the last time, that by now it has become something of an old friend. My old friend the bad novel.

A snake must be treated as a snake, forgiving it every time it showed you its fangs, will not transform into a garland of flowers.

The silence leans forward.

Village life gently swirled around them, with the perpetual ebb and flow of people, scurrying in every direction. The village was a living, organic entity, with blood flowing through its veins, and with a definite pulse and heartbeat. It had its own distinct personality and its own dark caustic humour, and was constantly processing and regurgitating information through its winding, meandering streets.

That long sigh again, above us. This time I saw it, moving through the branches. Like the trees were listening; like they would've been sad about us, sad for us, only they'd heard it all so many thousand times before.