Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end.

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

Nothing. My father is very good at doing nothing. He calls it thinking.

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

Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word.

There are two kinds of writers. There are architects and gardeners. The architects do blueprints before they drive the first nail. The gardeners just dig a hole and plant the seed and see what comes up.

I just need to rest, that’s all, to rest and sleep some, and maybe die a little.