Once upon a time – for that is how all stories should begin – there was a boy who lost his mother.
But he was wounded, and tired, and winter was still upon him.
Here is a truth, a truth by which to live: there is hope. There is always hope. If we choose to abandon it, our souls will turn to ash and blow away.
You can’t prove that something doesn’t exist. You can only prove that something does exist.
Why is there always one bloke in these boy bands who looks like he came to fix the boiler and somehow got bullied into joining the group?
Each man dreams his own heaven.
On more than one occasion David, in his urge to explore the darker corners of the bookshelves, had found himself wearing strands of spider silk in his face and hair, causing the web’s creator to scuttle into a corner and crouch balefully, lost in thoughts of arachnoid revenge.
They were on the side of the angels, even if the angels weren’t entirely sure that this was a good thing.
You had evil inside you, and you indulged it. Men will always indulge it.
I’d been hurt, and in response I had acted violently, destroying a little of myself each time I did so.
He had quite liked the dwarfs. He often had no idea what they were talking about, but for a group of homicidal, class-obsessed small people, they were really rather good fun.
And David saw himself reflected in the Woodsman’s eyes, and there he was no longer old but a young man, for a man is always his father’s child no matter how old he is or how long they have been apart.
It was an overcast late November morning, the grass splintered by hoarfrost, and winter grinning through the gaps in the clouds like a bad clown peering through the curtains before the show begins.
If ‘why’ was the first and last question, then because I was curious to see what would happen was the first and last answer. A version of it had been spoken to God Himself in the Garden of Eden, and it was destined to be the reason for the end of things at the hands of man.
The US dollar is our currency but your problem.
I believe in those whom I love and trust.
What is good for you creatively is usually bad commercially. You thrive financially by sticking to a series and not fiddling about too much. You do yourself harm by moving away from the series and the genre. By trying things not based in that particular mode of writing, you will just lose readers.
He became merely the broken statue of a beast, now without another’s fear to animate it.
My feelings for Raphael are mine, and mine alone. I loved him, and that is all anyone needs to know. The rest is no business of any man’s.
She was plump, with dyed red hair and a face so caked with cosmetics that the floor of the Amazon jungle probably saw more natural light...
Luck ran out, but smart was for life.