Quotes from Lev Grossman

Loyal prophets of an indifferent god" (on the topic of alcoholics, p.222)

The silver years of the Chatwins are long ago now, and the years since have been forged from baser metals. You

she wanted a book to do to her what books did: take away the world, slide it aside for a little bit, and let her please, please just be somewhere and somebody else.

I got my hearts desire, he thought, and there my troubles began.

Now, even though things would never be the same, even though they'd never be together in the same way, at least he could always remember it the way he wanted to. The memories were safe, sealed forever in amber.

The dark liquid looked black in the glass, and she had to restrain herself from gulping it. Fresh tobacco. Black currants. God, it was so good. She kept it in her mouth for a count of ten before she swallowed. If there was any magic in this world that was not magic, it was wine.

Death and destruction!" the hare called out as it ran, in case it hadn't made itself clear before. "Disappointment and despair!

You really are a child, aren't you? You're obviously not enough of a man to have a real relationship. You're not even enough of a man to end a real relationship. Do I have to do absolutely everything for you?

There was more to life than being fat and safe and warm in a clockwork luxury resort. Or maybe there wasn't more, but he was going to find out. And how did you find out? You had an adventure. That's how. You picked up a golden key.

It was unconventional, but conventions were there to make it easy on the fakers and cheats.

The mistake people make," Bingle said, "is thinking that there are different styles.

In the looking-glass world of the great magical underground, perspective appeared to be reversed: the closer you got to things, the smaller they looked.

shake him up. Get him out of his comfort zone so he could stop sneering at everybody else who was out of theirs. Get him thinking about something besides his own neuroses for a change.

The mistake people make," Bingle said, "is thinking that there are different styles." "All right." "Force, balance, leverage, momentum—these principles never change. They are your style.

Everyone here was the cleverest little monkey in his or her particular tree. Except now we're all in one tree together. It can be a shock. Not enough coconuts to go round. You'll be dealing with your equals for the first time in your life, and your betters. You won't like it.

You had to face yourself and deal with your shit, that's how you got somewhere.

Hello," he said, not missing a beat. "Glad you could make it. Alice, I understand you burned our door in half." "Quentin helped.

In any case, we do not and cannot understand what magic is, or where it comes from, any more than a carpenter understands why a tree grows. He doesn't have to. He works with what he has.

No, it was that Fillory was cruel, as cruel in its way as the real world was. There was no difference, though we all pretended there was. There was nothing fair about Fillory, just as there was nothing fair about people's fathers going to war, and their mothers going mad, and the way we among all animals were cursed with a longing for somewhere better, somewhere that never existed and never would. Fillory was no better than our world. It was just prettier.

This is life, he kept saying to himself. That was being dead, and this is being alive. That was death, this is life. I will never confuse them again.

Bingle shot Quentin a glance to the effect of, you have no idea how to be a king, literally none. The

More than fantasy or even science fiction, Ray Bradbury wrote horror, and like so many great horror writers he was himself utterly without fear, of anything. He wasn't afraid of looking uncool - he wasn't scared to openly love innocence, or to be optimistic, or to write sentimentally when he felt that way.

What surprised me about 'The Casual Vacancy' was not just how good it was, but the particular way in which it was good.

I've only read three books by Stephen King. When I was 10 I read 'The Long Walk,' one of his pseudonymous Bachman books. In my early 20s, while trapped on a family vacation, I read 'The Dark Half,' which taught me a word I have never forgotten: psychopomp. Now I have read '11/22/63.'