I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.

Those are brave men," he told Ser Balon in admiration. "Let's go kill them.

The true horrors of human history derive not from orcs and Dark Lords, but from ourselves.

Why should death make a man truthful, or even clever? The dead are likely dull fellows, full of tedious complaints - the ground's too cold, my gravestone should be larger, why does he get more worms than I do.

He understood the way that you could sometimes fall right into them, as if each page was a hole into another world.

You could make a poultice out of mud to cool a fever. You could plant seeds in mud and grow a crop to feed your children. Mud would nourish you, where fire would only consume you, but fools and children and young girls would choose fire every time.

I've been very lucky. There were times when I was afraid I would never sell another book, but I never doubted I'd write another book.