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.

Westly, Westly, Westly, Westly, Westly,--darling Westly, adored Westly, sweet perfect Westly, whisper that I have a chance to win your love." And with that, she dared the bravest thing she'd ever done: she looked right into his eyes. He closed the door in her face.

I must be overtired', Buttercup managed. 'The excitement and all.' 'Rest then', her mother cautioned. 'Terrible things can happen when you're overtired. I was overtired the night your father proposed.

For you see each day I love you more today more than yesterday and less than tomorrow. Just because you're beautiful and perfect, it's made you conceited.

It’s an accepted fact that all writers are crazy, even the normal ones are weird.

I am as devoted to adventure now as then, and that’s never going to stop.

One of the things that happens to careers out here is that people destroy themselves because they begin to think they're wonderful. They begin to think they know what they're doing, and the minute that happens, it's over.