In Your Dreams

Love is an optical illusion that makes you believe the object of your affection is the most beautiful person in the world.

A romantic, I think the word is. Latin for idiot.

People are sometimes easily overlooked. The holes they leave behind when they aren't there any more are far harder to miss.

But there you go. Nobody said life was supposed to be easy, or fair, or even a guaranteed minimum length.

Starting with the partners, we’ve got a goblin, a giant and the Queen of the Fey. Then there’s Mr Shumway, he’s a dwarf. And you’re a pig, so really it doesn’t look like being human’s exactly a requirement, is it? In fact, they’ve probably only got a couple of token humans so as not to get in trouble with the equal-opportunities people.

His men would follow him anywhere, but only out of curiosity.

Paul reached out his hand to help Sophie to her feet; she ignored him (she didn’t hold with patronising gender-stereotypical conventions) and wobbled for a moment before her legs remembered how to cope with her weight.

If ever I have the time, I’m going to write a book about beauty and pain. They’re so alike in so many ways: neither of them really exist, but both of them are strong enough to override the strongest human mind and turn wisest and bravest of us all into clowns. Someone who can command beauty and pain – well, they’d have all the bases covered, as we say where I come from.

You might’ve got a letter, and it might have been in her handwriting, but I’m prepared to bet you my front teeth in a simple platinum setting that Judy wrote it, for reasons so obvious they’re visible from orbit.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful, wouldn’t it be absolutely fucking grand if Life somehow contrived to let five minutes go by without dumping some new and incrementally horrible load of shit on my head from a great height?

I sincerely hope, that you will grow up to be both a hero and a magician - brave and clever, though there’s excellent grounds for saying the two qualities are mutually exclusive. But what the hell.

Of all selfish bastards, a selfish bastard who likes to be liked is probably the worst. Never

If the Good Lord had intended us to crawl, he'd have given us a hundred legs and an exosqueleton.