[b]Neil Gaiman
So, he asked. How’s death?
Hard, she said. It just keeps going.[/b]
Jesus, imagine if we are still around to know it.
Fair enough, said Thor. What’s the price?
Freya’s hand in marriage.
He just wants her hand? asked Thor hopefully. She had two hands, after all, and might be persuaded to give up one of them without too much of an argument. Tyr had, after all.
All of her, said Loki. He wants to marry her.
Oh, said Thor. She won’t like that.
The gods as we’d least expect them.
It’s not sipping wine. It’s a mourning wine. You drain it. Like this.
Same as with the harder stuff in other words.
People talk about books that write themselves, and it’s a lie. Books don’t write themselves. It takes thought and research and backache and notes and more time and more work than you’d believe.
Great, there’s my excuse.
Richard wondered how the marquis managed to make being pushed around in a wheelchair look like a romantic and swashbuckling thing to do.
That makes two of us then.
There is something about riding a unicorn, for those people who still can, which is unlike any other experience: exhilarating, and intoxicating, and fine.
Maybe, but what’s that next to riding a dragon?