Half a King is my favorite book by Joe Abercrombie so far, and that’s saying something.
Most games follow a real railroad plot, no matter what you want, you’re following their storyline to its unavoidable conclusion. I’d like to write a game where your character can follow any number of possible story arcs and sub-plots.
Perhaps the greatest faculty our minds possess is the ability to cope with pain.
I’ve got an idea for a modern day faerie tale that I think would made a great short novel. But I just don’t have the time to work on it right now. I’m way too busy with the ‘Kingkiller Chronicles’ and being a new dad.
A tree doesn’t make a thunderstorm, but any fool knows where lightning’s going to strike.
With slow care rather than stealth we must approach the subject of a certain woman. Her wildness is of such degree, I fear approaching her too quickly even in a story. Should I move recklessly, I might startle even the idea of her into sudden flight.
Is there a connection between language and magic? Yes. Ten times yes. So much yes that it almost doesn’t bear talking about. It’s as pointless that arguing that the sun is hot.
Beer dulls a memory, brand sets it burning, but wine is the best for a sore heart’s yearning.
I don’t feel beholden to follow the real world at all. The important thing is to know WHY things turned out the way they did. You need to understand the reasons for events, or at least be able to make reasonable guesses about them.
I want to learn how to pick locks, swordfight, throw pottery – it’s all research. It’s like the curious person’s version of James Bond’s license to kill. I’ve got a license to learn.
If you can find someone like that, someone who you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you’re lucky.
Feel free to call me by my first name: Master.
Pride is always a better lever against the nobility than reason.
I think the best part of being an author is that I get to learn about anything I want and explain it away as research.
Close your mouth, E’lir Kvothe, or I will feel obliged to put some vile tonic in it.
I believe it, Chronicler found himself thinking. Before it was just a story, but now I can believe it. This is the face of a man who has killed an angel.
I loved college. I wish I was still taking classes instead of teaching them.
Words have to find a man’s mind before they can touch his heart, and some men’s minds are woefully small targets.
He was giving me enough rope to hang myself with. Apparently he didn’t realize that once a noose is tied it will fit one neck as easily as another.
I can’t count the men who have tried to seduce me away from my virtue by teaching me how to defend it.