You Never Do Things The Easy Way,

When Someone Writes Something Dazzlingly Brilliant, People Want To Imitate It. The Result Is A Lot Of Less-than-brilliant Knock-offs. Elves, Dwarves, Goblin Army, Cursed Ring, Evil Sorcerer. Tolkien Did It. It Rocked. Let's Move On. Let's Do Something New.

A Poet Is A Musician Who Can't Sing.

When You Love Something, You Have To Make Sure It Loves You Back, Or You'll Bring About No End Of Trouble Chasing It.

The Waystone Was His, Just As The Third Silence Was His. This Was Appropriate, As It Was The Greatest Silence Of The Three, Wrapping The Others Inside Itself. It Was Deep And Wide As Autumn’s Ending. It Was Heavy As A Great River-smooth Stone. It Was The Patient, Cut-flower Sound Of A Man Who Is Waiting To Die.

Auri Took It, And Peered Inside The Small Leather Sack. “why This Is Lovely, Kvothe. What Lives In The Salt?” Trace Minerals, I Thought. Chromium, Bassal, Malium, Iodine . . . Everything Your Body Needs But Probably Can’t Get From Apples And Bread And Whatever You Manage To Scrounge Up When I Can’t Find You. “the Dreams Of Fish,” I Said. “and Sailor’s Songs.