So this is a wildling. Jon remembered Old Nan’s tales of the savage folk who drank blood from human skulls. Craster seemed to be drinking a thin yellow beer from a chipped stone cup. Perhaps he had not heard the stories.
George R R Martin, Game of Thrones - A clash of kings
They are highborn, all but Blane, they get drunk on words instead of wine.
George R. R. Martin, in A clash of kings
What an epitaph that would make: the future of humanity destroyed because the man in a position to stop the threat was in the thrall of infatuation and couldn’t keep his head in the game.
Douglas E. Richards, in Wired
It’s not like we didn’t communicate; we just didn’t talk.
Esther Perel, in Mating in captivity
I was just thinking that I am not very many years old, but that I am a century wide. I think that I have my literal age but am surrounded in a radius of years. I think that these years of days, this near century of years, is a gift from you. Thank you.
Paul Harding, in Tinkers
Everything is made to perish; the wonder of anything at all is that it has not already done so. No, he thought. The wonder of anything is that it was made in the first place. What persists beyond this cataclysm of making and unmaking?
Paul Harding, in Tinkers
…to be human is, inevitably, to hate oneself sometimes, to hunger for the perfect stability and in a way the perfect justice - or at least perfect punishment for our numerous imperfections - called death.
John Gardner, in In the suicide mountains.
And as the ax bites into the wood, be comforted in the fact that the ache in your heart and the confusion in your soul means that you are still alive, still human, and still open to the beauty of the world, even though you have done nothing to deserve it. And when you resent the ache in your heart, remember: You will be dead and buried soon enough.
Paul Harding, in Tinkers.
Your cold mornings are filled with the heartache about the fact that although we are not at ease in this world, it is all we have, that it is ours but that it is full of strife, so that all we can call our own is strife; but even that is better than nothing at all, isn’t it?
Paul Harding, in Tinkers
