No one could be following us yet?” the Spaniard asked. “No one,” the Sicilian assured him. “It would be inconceivable.” “Absolutely inconceivable?” “Absolutely, totally, and, in all other ways, inconceivable,” the Sicilian reassured him. “Why do you ask?
With any luck at all,” he said, “we should soon be safely in the Fire Swamp.
The Serpent, to my interpretation, was pain.
We are one heartbeat,” and she kissed him softly and said, “And will always be.
It was all part of growing up. You got these little quick passions, you blinked, and they were gone. You forgave faults, found perfection, fell madly; then the next day the sun came up and it was over. Chalk it up to experience, old girl, and get on with the morning. Buttercup stood, made her bed, changed her clothes, combed her hair, smiled, and burst out again in a fit of weeping. Because there was a limit to just how much you could lie to yourself.
Inigo stood still a moment, panting. Then he made a half turn in the direction of Count Rugen and executed a quick and well-formed bow. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.
That explains it.” Actually, of course, it didn’t explain anything, but whenever doctors are confused about something, which is really more frequently than any of us would do well to think about, they always snatch at something in the vicinity of the case and add, “That explains it.
There’s death coming up, and you better understand this: some of the wrong people die. Be ready for it. This isn’t Curious George Uses the Potty.
Why was it worth so much of your life?” “Because I could not fail him again.” “Fail who?” “My father.
She had never looked as well. She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering.
I must know!” “Get used to disappointment.
He always felt better when he could dole out pain alone.
The new doctors all agreed on various tried-and-true medications, and within forty-eight hours of their coming on the case, the King was dead.
But this is life on earth, you can’t have everything.
The truth,’ said Westley, ‘is that you would rather live with your prince than die with your love.’ ‘I would rather live than die, I admit it.’ ‘We are talking of love, madam.’ There was a long pause. Then Buttercup said it: ‘I can live without love.’ And with that she left Westley alone.
As long as you think you can fight your way out of trouble, you will never be able to fight your way out of trouble.
And 5:25 when the screaming started outside the main gate.
I am not a planner. I follow. Tell me what to do and no man alive does it better. But my mind is like fine wine; it travels badly.
I could feel almost my heart emptying into my pillow. Iguess the most amazing thing about crying though is that when you’re in it, you think it’ll go on forever but it never really lasts half what you think. Not in terms of real time.
For the pedant, dates are deities, worthy of worship, but for the true social historian, they are minutiae only, a shorthand, convenient reminders and no more. You do not ask a Titanic survivor, ‘Let me see now, just exactly when was that?’ You ask him this: ‘What was it like? How did you feel?’ And that is the job of the social historian: to make the past vibrant for the present; to emotionally involve those of us who were not there. And to make us understand.