The tears that kept Buttercup company the remainder of the day were not at all like those that had blinded her into the tree trunk. Those were noisy and hot; they pulsed. These were silent and steady and all they did was remind her that she wasn’t good enough. She was seventeen, and every male she’d ever known had crumbled at her feet and it meant nothing. The one time it really mattered, she wasn’t good enough.
William GoldmanSomeone would have to keep his wits, and he had assumed automatically that since Fezzik had so few, he would find retaining them not all that difficult.
William GoldmanWhen was the last time you read a book? The truth now. And picture books don't count-I mean something with print in it.
William Goldman