The man Jack was tall. This man was taller. The man Jack wore dark clothes. This man’s clothes were darker. People who noticed the man Jack when he was about his business-- and he did not like to be n...
The limeade was very interesting. It didn't taste anything like limes. It tasted bright green and vaguely chemical.
The head of the sledgehammer was cold, icy cold, and it touched his forehead as gently as a kiss. 'Pock! There,' said Czernobog. 'Is done.' There was a smile on his face that Shadow had never seen bef...
The future had suddenly become unknowable: anything could happen: the train of my life had jumped the rails and headed off across the fields and coming down the lane with me, then.
The end of the story of Batman is he's dead. Because, in the end, the Batman dies. What else am I going to do? Retire and play golf? It doesn't work that way. It can't. I fight until I drop. And one d...
The daylight faded slowly: distances collapsed and the world turned indigo and the wind blew cold enough to burn the skin on your face.
The PriestessHer skin was pale, and her eyes were dark, and her hair was dyed black. She went on a daytime talk show and proclaimed herself a vampire queen. She showed the cameras her dentally crafted...
That's the trouble with you young people. You think because you ain't been here long, you know everything. In my life I already forgot more than you ever know.
That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger. That's as maybe. But that which does kill us, kills us, and ain't that a bitch...
That was the thing about Loki. You resented him even when you were at your most grateful, and you were grateful to him even when you hated him the most.
Tell him that we fucking reprogrammed reality. Tell him that language is a virus and that religion is an operating system and that prayers are just so much fucking spam.
Tastes like a drunken diabetic's piss,' agreed Wednesday. 'I hate the stuff.
Stories are webs, interconnected strand to strand, and you follow each story to the center, because the center is the end. Each person is a strand of the story.
Stories are made up by people who make them up. If they work, they get retold. There's the magic of it.
Start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there’ll always be better writers than you and there’ll always be smarter writers than you. There will always be people who are much better at...
Somewhere in the night, someone was writing.
She smiled again. Do you like cat? she said.Yes, said Richard. I quite like cats.Anaesthesia looked relieved. Thigh? she asked, or breast?
She had the feeling that the door was looking at her, which she knew was silly, and knew on a deeper level was somehow true.
She called for her fiance and told him not to take on so, and that they would still be married, even if he was but a prince and she a queen, and she chucked him beneath his pretty chin and kissed him...
Shadow walked the meadow, making his own slow circles around the trunk of the tree, gradually widening his circle. Sometimes he would stop and pick something up: a flower, or a leaf, or a pebble, or a...