Men see what they expect to see.

That was the way of this cold world, where men fished the sea and dug in the ground and died, whilst women brought forth short-lived children from beds of blood and pain.

A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies.

His dagger was out, poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.

I wrote six pilots, none of which ever got picked up. When you stop trying, it then it falls in your lap.

Do you want to die old and craven in your bed?- How else? Though not till I'm done reading.

Sometimes he could almost forget that it was there, the way you forget about the sky or the earth underfoot, but there were other times when it seemed as if there was nothing else in the world.