Quotes from William Goldman

you would never in this world have beaten him. But I tell you this: he would never in this world have beaten you.

You mean you'll forgive me completely for saving your life if I completely forgive you for saving mine? You're my friend, my only one. Pathetic, that's what we are, Inigo said. Athletic.

He would find the six-fingered man. He would go up to him. He would say simply, "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die," and then, oh then, the duel.

Oh, you stupid, if there's a right way and a wrong way, trust you to find the dumb way.

But you wouldn't have ever known I was going to kill you if I hadn't been the one to tell you. Doesn't that let you know I can be trusted? Frankly, and I hope you won't be insulted, no.

Who kills Prince Humperdinck? At the end, somebody's got to get him. Is it Fezzik? Who?' 'Nobody kills him. He lives.' 'You mean he wins, Daddy? Jesus, what did you read me this thing for?

He had written to her just before he sailed for America. The Queen's Pride was his ship, and he loved her. (That was the way his sentences always went: It is raining today and I love you. My cold is better and I love you. Say hello to Horse and I love you. Like that.)

I knew I wasn't about to bawl again. Like Buttercup's, my heart was now a secret garden and the walls were very high.

But I must never love again.

Later, years later even, sometimes I might say, How about the duel on the cliff with Inigo and the man in black? and my father would gruff and grumble and get the book and lick his thumb, turning pages till the mighty battle began.

I am all right. I am fine. I am alive, and I will stay that way.

He had heard odd things about this place, and lions didn't bother him, and who cared about gorillas; they were nothing. It was the creepers that made him squeamish. And the slitherers. And the stingers. And the . . . and the everything, Fezzik decided, to be truthful and honest. Spiders and snakes and bugs and bats and you name it—he just wasn't very fond of any of them.

Oh, Westley, I didn't mean that, I didn't, I didn't, not a single syllabub of it." Now Westley knew that she meant to say "not a single syllable of it," because a syllabub was something you ate, with cream and wine mixed in together to form the base. But he also knew an apology when he heard one. So he held her very close, and shut his loving eyes, and only whispered, "I knew it was false, believe me, every single syllabub.

I would describe her more as a knitter than a doer.

You'd do it so much better," Buttercup replied. "I'll get the sashes, but I really think you should do the actual tying." "Woman," Westley roared, "you are the property of the Dread Pirate Roberts and you . . . do . . . what . . . you're . . . told!

You had to admire a guy who called his own new book a classic before it was published and anyone else had a chance to read it. Maybe he figured if he didn't do it, nobody would, or maybe he was just trying to give the reviewers a helping hand; I don't know.

life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all.

I love you, Buttercup said. I know this must come as something of a surprise, since all I've ever done is scorn you and degrade you and taunt you, but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second more.

Yes, Buttercup replied. There was a very long pause. But I must never love again. She never did.

He must be very desperate, or very frightened, or very stupid, or very brave." "Very all four I should think" the Prince replied.

That's all you need? Easy. I love you. Okay? Want it louder? I love you. Spell it out, should I? I ell-oh-vee-ee -why-oh-you. Want it backward? You love I.

Jelenka Harvey Houghton Mifflin Harcourt 215 Park Avenue South New York, NY 10003*

Das Leben ist nicht gerecht, Bill. Wir erzählen unseren Kindern, daß es gerecht ist, aber das ist eine Gemeinheit. Es ist nicht bloß eine Lüge, es ist eine grausame Lüge. Das Leben ist nicht gerecht, ist es nie gewesen und wird es nie sein.‹

he could never quite figure out how he happened to sire his daughter, but he knew, deep down, that it must have been some kind of wonderful mistake, the nature of which he had no intention of investigating.