The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer.

A crown should not sit easy on the head.

First rule, stick them with the pointy end!

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

There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

I have an instinctual distrust of conventional happy endings.

Oh, my sweet summer child," Old Nan said quietly, "what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods