If It Was A Sin For You

Murtagh Was Right About Women. Sassenach, I Risked My Life For Ye, Committing Theft, Arson, Assault, And Murder Into The Bargain. In Return For Which Ye Call Me Names, Insult My Manhood, Kick Me In The Ballocks And Claw My Face. Then I Beat You Half To Death And Tell Ye All The Most Humiliating Things Have Ever Happened To Me, And Ye Say Ye Love Me." He Laid His Head On His Knees And Laughed Some More. Finally He Rose And Held Out A Hand To Me, Wiping His Eyes With The Other. "you're No Verra Sensible, Sassenach, But I Like Ye Fine. Let's Go.

Your Face Is My Heart

The Colors Of Living Things Begin To Fade With The Last Breath, And The Soft, Springy Skin And Supple Muscle Rot Within Weeks. But The Bones Sometimes Remain, Faithful Echoes Of The Shape, To Bear Some Last Faint Witness To The Glory Of What Was.

Character, I Think, Is The Single Most Important Thing In Fiction. You Might Read A Book Once For Its Interesting Plot—but Not Twice.

No Wonder Men Got Impervious To Superficial Pain, I Thought. It Came From This Habit Of Hammering Each Other Incessantly.