D’ye ken that the only time I am without pain is in your bed, Sassenach? When I take ye, when I lie in your arms-my wounds are healed, then, my scars forgotten.
With that height, plus a face of an ugliness so transcendant as to be grotesquely beautiful, it was obvious why she had embraced a religious life – Christ was the only man from whom she might expect embrace in return.
We are bound, you and I, and nothing on this earth shall part me from you.
Are some people destined for a great fate, or to do great things? Or is it only that they’re born somehow with that great passion – and if they find themselves in the right circumstances, then things happen? It’s the sort of thing you wonder...
No wonder he was so good with horses, I thought blearily, feeling his fingers rubbing gently behind my ears, listening to the soothing, incomprehensible speech. If I were a horse, I’d let him ride me anywhere.
Overall, the library held a hushed exultation, as though the cherished volumes were all singing soundlessly within their covers.
An Englishman thinks a hundred miles is a long way; and American thinks a hundred years is a long time.
Man’s sense of Morality tends to decrease as his Power increases.
Torn between the impulse to stroke his head, and the urge to cave it in with a rock, I did neither.
Any piece of good music is in essence a love song.
Tell him I hate him to his guts and the marrow of his bones!
It was in a way a comforting idea; if there was all the time in the world, then the happenings of a given moment became less important.
Knowing that everything is possible suddenly nothing is necessary.
The past is gone-the future is not come. And we are here together, you and I.
Highlanders make the truest friends-if only because they make the worst enemies.
The colors of living things begin to fade with the last breath, and the soft, springy skin and supple muscle rot within weeks. But the bones sometimes remain, faithful echoes of the shape, to bear some last faint witness to the glory of what was.
It’s a good country for myths. Things seem to take root here.
And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil.
Conflict and character are the heart of good fiction, and good mystery has both of those in spades.
I read all the time. People ask, ‘Do you read while you work?’ And I say, ‘I better.’ I take two or three years to finish one of my enormous books, and I can’t go that long without reading.