Anyway, my office is small - one room, but on the corner, with a couple of windows. The sign on the door reads, simply, HARRY DRESDEN, WIZARD. Just inside the door is a table, covered with pamphlets with titles like: Magic and You, and Why Witches Don't Sink Any Faster Than Anyone Else - a Wizard's Perspective. I wrote most of them. I think it's important for we practitioners of the Art to keep up a good public image. Anything to avoid another Inquisition.

Demonreach only wants Harry to see what's going on." "Why doesn't it just marry him?" Thomas muttered under his breath. "It sort of did," I said. "My brother the... geosexual?

Ease off the martyr throttle.

I love watching him think," Maeve told Lily. "You can almost hear that poor little hamster running and running on its wheel.

The characters within a book were, from a certain point of view, identical on some fundamental level ‒ there weren't any images of them, no physical tangibility whatsoever. They were pictures in the reader's head, constructs of imagination and ideas, given shape by the writer's work and skill and the reader's imagination. Parents, of a sort.

Somewhere out there was a village I'd deprived of it's idiot.

‎It isn't enough to stand up and fight darkness. You've got to stand apart from it, too. You've got to be different from it.