Richard began to understand darkness: darkness as something solid and real, so much more than a simple absence of light. He felt it touch his skin, questing, moving, exploring: gliding through his mind. It slipped into his lungs, behind his eyes, into his mouth.

On the whole, stories don't write themselves.

The best thing—in Shadow's opinion, perhaps the only good thing—about being in prison was a feeling of relief. The feeling that he'd plunged as low as he could plunge and he'd hit bottom. He didn't worry that the man was going to get him, because the man had got him. He was no longer scared of what tomorrow might bring, because yesterday had brought it.

Sometimes I wish that just solving the plot problems was enough. And then elves would go and do all the actual work moving the words around.

The wise man knows when to keep silent. Only the fool tells all he knows.

People populate the darkness; with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales.

Not gay, just never met the right woman.