Why take pride in cooking, when they don't take pride in eating?
Thou canst not serve both cod and salmon.
You don’t know a woman until you have had a letter from her.
You don't really know a woman until she writes you a letter.
Absurdly improbable things are quite as liable to happen in real life as in weak literature.
The Futurists?. . . . Well, of course, they are already past.
When I see a cheerful young man shrieking about how full of life he is, banging on a drum, and blowing on a tin trumpet, and speaking of his good spirits, it depresses me, since naturally it gives the contrary impression. It can't be real. It ought to be but it isn't. If the noisy person meant what he said, he wouldn't say it.
They always assumed that I did not speak. That I could not. So many had plotted my death, discussed it, laughed about it, even while I was in the same room, because they assumed I was mindless. Like one of the failures of their kind, born mad. But I was not a failure. I was what I was supposed to be. I was dhampir. And they never lived to tell anyone they were wrong.
I've written some standalone novels, but a book series allows fans in. There's much more intense involvement.
A struggle, to the person experiencing it, is a struggle.
I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; not the soldier's which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness.