Any fool could be a witch with a runic knife, but it took skill to be one with an apple corer.

He was certain he was anorectic, because every time he looked in a mirror he saw a fat man. It was the Archchancellor, standing behind him and shouting at him.

And he dreamed the dream of all those who publish books, which was to have so much gold in your pockets that you would have to employ two people just to hold your trousers up.

He'd heard that writers spent all day in their dressing gowns drinking champagne. This is, of course, absolutely true.

He was the sort of person who stood on mountaintops during thunderstorms in wet copper armour shouting 'All the Gods are bastards.'

Soon to come in licorice, orange, cinnamon, and banana, but not strawberry, because I hate strawberries.

This isn't life in the fast lane, it's life in the oncoming traffic.