I'm Honest. It's The World That's Awful.

If A Man Paints A Target On His Chest, He Should Expect That Sooner Or Later Someone Will Loose An Arrow On Him.

My Own Heroes Are The Dreamers, Those Men And Women Who Tried To Make The World A Better Place Than When They Found It, Whether In Small Ways Or Great Ones. Some Succeeded, Some Failed, Most Had Mixed Results... But It Is The Effort That's Heroic, As I See It. Win Or Lose, I Admire Those Who Fight The Good Fight.

The Stone Is Strong. Bran Told Himself, The Roots Of The Trees Go Deep, And Under The Ground The Kings Of Winter Sit Their Thrones. So Long As Those Remained, Winterfell Remained. It Was Not Dead, Just Broken. Like Me, He Thought. I'm Not Dead Either.

The Distinction Between Literary And Genre Fiction Is Stupid And Pernicious. It Dates Back To A Feud Between Robert Louis Stevenson And Henry James. James Won, And It Split Literature Into Two Streams. But It's A Totally False Dichotomy.

Something About The Howling Of A Wolf Took A Man Right Out Of His Here And Now And Left Him In A Dark Forest Of The Mind, Running Naked Before The Pack.