My bad luck got tangled up with my bad decisions, and I’m paying for it.
The air was heavy with the smell of leather and dust, of old parchment and binding glue. It smelled of secrets.
But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. This is rare and pure and perfect.
My shrug was so nonchalant it would make a cat jealous.
Isn’t that the way of the world? We want the sweet things, but we need the unpleasant ones.
He had a bright, reckless tenor that was always wandering off, looking for notes in the wrong places.
All explicit knowledge is translated knowledge, and all translation is imperfect.
We are more than the parts that form us.
Fencing is more a sport than a martial art. It would be like basing your knowledge of roman phalanx warfare on NFL football.
Dawn was coming. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.
When left to its own devices it tends to make me look as if I’ve been set afire.
Just pity him, my boy. Tomorrow we’ll be on our way, but he’ll have to keep his own disagreeable company until the day he dies.
It’s one thing to not want an evil-sorcerer type villain in your story, but it’s another thing to avoid having any sort of antagonist at all. A story without an antagonist gets weird pretty quick.
I decided to dub the room with the good chairs my lutery. Or perhaps my performatory. I would need a while to come up with something suitably pretentious.
I only know one story. But oftentimes small pieces seem to be stories themselves.
Only priests and fools are fearless and I’ve never been on the best of terms with God.
You need to realize that most writing rules aren’t laws, they’re rules of thumb.
It gets tiresome being spoken to as if you are a child, even if you happen to be one.
Congratulations. That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.
It wasn’t even a good note. ‘If you are reading this I am probably dead.’ What sort of a note is that?