Supposedly I've got traces of an English accent, though I can't hear it. I must have inherited it from my mother, who's English, and then I think it was exacerbated by the fact that I live with an Australian.

There is really no end to life's little humiliations.

I have no doubt there are magician psychopaths, and magician serial killers. I doubt Brakebills admissions is very good at screening for those.

Oddly, the meanings of books are defined for me much more by their beginnings and middles than they are by their endings.

The life I should be living had been mislaid through some clerical error by the cosmic bureaucracy.

It's natural for a child to assume that his or her own childhood is unremarkable.

As a writer I'm more drawn to villains who are just slightly mad.