Littlefinger looked like a boy who had just taken a furtive bite from a honeycomb. He was TRYING to watch for bees, but the honey was so sweet.

Pyp had stabbed a turnip with his knife. "The night is dark and full of turnips," he announced in a solemn voice. "Let us all pray for venison, my children, with some onions and a bit of tasty gravy.

A lot of writing takes place in the subconscious, and it's bound to have an effect.

I have climbed these steps so often I know each one by name.

I thank you for calling them off, young ser. I promise you, they would have found me indigestible.

The vast majority of writers out there, they finish their books and no one cares whether their book is late or ever comes out at all. And then it comes out and two reviews are published and it sells 12 copies.

Of all the bright cruel lies they tell you, the cruelest is the one called love.