Bod was thrilled. He imagined a future in which he could read everything, in which all stories could be opened and discovered.
Because, announced Tristran, every lover is in his heart a madman, and in his head a minstrel.
Be boring, knowing everything. You have to give all that stuff up if you're going to muck about here.
As-tu déjà été amoureux? C'est horrible non? Ca rend si vulnérable. Ca t'ouvre la poitrine et le coeur en grand et du coup, n'importe qui peut venir te bousiller de l'intérieur. On se forge des défens...
As coisas não precisam ter acontecido para serem verdadeiras. Contos e sonhos são verdades-sombras que vão perdurar quando os reles fatos não forem mais do que pó e cinzas esquecidas.
And there was a voice, a high clear, female voice, which said Ow, and then, very quietly, it said Fuck, and then it said Ow, once more.
And then it went, and time passed properly once more, every second following every other second just like they're meant to.
And just when you'd think they were more malignant than ever Hell could be, they could occasionally show more grace than Heaven ever dreamed of. Often the same individual was involved. It was this fre...
A song can last long after the events and people in it are dust and dreams and gone.
He realized how much he wanted to take her pain away
. . I lay on the bed and lost myself in the stories. I liked that. Books were safer than other people anyway.
Will be an impulse that will inspire and ruin in equal measure.
Now, where do I bring this thing down?" I asked. There was a hesitation, then, "You don't. We didn't design it to return. It was a redundancy we had no need for. Too costly, in terms of resources." "S...
You wanna be the next Tolkien? Don't read big, tolkien-esque fantasies. TOLKIEN didn't read big, tolkien-esque fantasies. He read books on finnish philology. You go and read outside your comfort zone,...
When writing a novel, that's pretty much entirely what life turns into: 'House burned down. Car stolen. Cat exploded. Did 1500 easy words, so all in all it was a pretty good day.
Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters.
Truth is not in what happens but in what it tells us about who we are. Fiction is the lie that tells the truth, after all.
Ourselves in those moments, where the trigger has been squeezed, is this: the past is not dead. There are things that wait for us, patiently, in the dark corridors of our lives. We think we have moved...
You, she told him, are so full of shit, it's a wonder your eyes don't turn brown.
You're no help, he told the lime. This was unfair. It was only a lime; there was nothing special about it at all. It was doing the best it could.