She loves you," the Prince cried. "She loves you still and you love her, so think of that--think of this too: in all this world, you might have been happy, genuinely happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, not really, no matter what the storybooks say, but you could have had it, and so, I would think, no one will ever suffer a loss as great as you.

Good night, Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.

But just as he knew the sun was obliged to rise each morning in the east, no matter how much a western arisal might have pleased it, so he knew that Buttercup was obliged to spend her love on him. Gold was inviting, and so was royalty, but they could not match the fever in his heart, and sooner or later she would have to catch it. She had less choice than the sun.

This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it.

He had risked his life and now it was walking away from him, hand-in-hand with a Ruffian prince.

One way an author dies a little each day is when his books go out of print.

There are always too few perfect breasts in this world; leave yours alone.