In real life during the last decade of the twentieth century, Rumpelstiltskin would probably get the queen's daughter. He would no doubt addict her to heroin, turn her out as a prostitute, confiscate her earnings, beat her for pleasure, hack her to pieces, and escape justice by claiming that society's intolerance for bad-tempered, evil-minded trolls had driven him temporarily insane.

She says what holds their marriage together is that she feels too damn sorry for him to ask for a divorce.

She blinked, sat up, and saw Chris in the bathroom doorway. He'd just gotten out the shower. His hair was damp, and he was dressed only in his briefs. The sight of his thin, boyish body - all ribs and elbows and knees - pulled at her heart, for he looked so innocent and vulnerable. He was so small and fragile that she wondered how she could ever protect him, and renewed fear rose in her.

There's still a fascination with somebody who can write at book length, no matter what the book is.

I never have lunch because it makes me foggy-headed.

If wishes were filet mignon, we'd always eat well at dinner

What doesn't quicken dies. That's an indisputable truth of life.