He was transfixed at the sight of the lords and ladies of his realm running about like demented chickens.

And then, as if written by the hand of a bad novelist, an incredible thing happened.

That's usually how they start, the young ones. Meaningless waffle.

Then again, Solomon was human. And that meant he was flawed (Go on, take a look at yourself in the mirror. A good long look, if you can bear it. See? Flawed's putting it mildly, isn't it?)

One magician demanded I show him an image of the love of his life. I rustled up a mirror.

That's usuаllу hоw thеу start, thе young оnеs. Meaningless waffle.

The Amulet of Samarkand. It was Simon Lovelace's. Now it is yours. Soon it will be Simon Lovelace's again. Take it and enjoy the consequences.

Can you define "plan" as "a loose sequence of manifestly inadequate observations and conjectures, held together by panic, indecision, and ignorance"? If so, it was a very good plan.

That's a gesture of endearment in some cultures. Some hug, some kiss, some set each other on fire in small patches of woodland

When I write something that would have made me laugh as a 10-year-old, or would have scared me or would have excited me, I know I'm onto something.

Haven't you done enough for a lifetime? Think about it - two power - crazed magicians killed, a hundred power - crazed magicians saved.

Every stage of life has its own temptations and dangers, and Satan will do all he can to exploit them . . .the time to prepare is now, not when it arrives.

I've had great success and I've had catastrophic failure. It's really how you handle the rough stuff that defines you, I think.

I'm fourteen years old; that's almost half-way to thirty. I need my own space.

I'm not the only one working for democracy in Burma - there are so many people who have worked for it because they believe that this is the only way we can maintain the dignity of our people.

Once it has learned to dream the double, the self arrives at this weird crossroad and a moment comes when one realizes that it is the double who dreams the self.

[Hawthorne''s] pious blame is a chuckle of praise all the while.

I'm an environmentalist. Most of my jokes are recycled.

My first reading of Tolstoy affected me as a revelation from heaven, as the trumpet of the judgment. What he made me feel was notthe desire to imitate, but the conviction that imitation was futile.

In conlusion, there is no conclusion. Things will go on as they always have, getting weirder all the time.

If we did not have rational souls, we would not be able to believe.