Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards because a refusal often offends, I read somewhere.

Who knew what evil lurked in the hearts of men? A copper, that's who. (...)You saw how close men lived to the beast. You realized that people like Carcer were not mad. They were incredibily sane. They were simply men without a shield. They'd looked at the world and realized that all the rules didn't have to apply to them, not if they didn't want them to. They weren't fooled by all the little stories. They shook hands with the beast.

You had to hand it to the Patrician, he admitted grudgingly. If you didn't, he sent men to come and take it away.

You get a wonderful view from the point of no return.

Fantasy is uni-age. You can start it in the creche, and it follows you to death.

Theres no stink more sorrorful than the stink of wet, burnt paper. It means: the end.

It's not Brits who think American readers are a bunch of whinging morons with the geo-social understanding of a wire coathanger, it's American editors.