But I rather thought--I mean, I heard you'd killed Balder the Fair." "I never did," snapped Loki crossly. "Well, no one ever proved I did. What happened to the presumption of innocence? Besides, he was supposed to be invulnerable. Was it my fault that he wasn't?
Was it my fault that I got out of hand? --Loki
I think everybody has a secret life.
I'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.
I dream a lot, in colour and in sound and scent. Quite a few of my stories have come from dreams.
People reveal so much of their mental processes online, simply because the psychological effect of anonymity just means that a whole raft of inhibitions are left alone when people log on.
I love it when my books cause controversy, when people argue violently about the ending.
Our lives are like these things I make. Turn 'em, build 'em, bake 'em in fire. That's what you've been, son. Baked and fired. But a pot don't have the right to choose whether he be for water, wine, or just left empty. You have, son. You have.
I like literature that you respond to in some way. You laugh, you cry, you turn the light on - that's great, it's eliciting a response by proxy.
I have a tendency to pick up my own challenges. The more difficult something it is, the more I want to try it.
Online communities are an expression of loneliness.
I don't think I've ever had a mentor. The closest thing is my friend Christopher Fowler, another writer. Chris kept me sane for a long time before I made it.
Of course I didn't pioneer the use of food in fiction: it has been a standard literary device since Chaucer and Rabelais, who used food wonderfully as a metaphor for sensuality.
A man may plant a tree for a number of reasons. Perhaps he likes trees. Perhaps he wants shelter. Or perhaps he knows that someday he may need the firewood.
Their love was something which coloured the air between them like sunlight.
Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows.
Places do not lose their identity, however far one travels. It is the heart that begins to erode over time. The face in the hotel mirror seems blurred some mornings, as if by too many casual looks. By ten the sheets will be laundered, the carpet swept. The names on the hotel registers change as we pass. We leave no trace as we pass on. Ghostlike, we cast no shadow.
Love not often, but forever.
Like a domestic cat, purring on the sofa by day, but by night, a strutting queen, a natural killer, disdainful of her other life.
I've nothing against kids reading anything they please, but I do have a problem with pink books for girls and black books for boys.
A thing named is a thing tamed.
I speak as I must and cannot be silent.
The process of writing is a little like madness, a kind of possession not altogether benign.
I don't listen to music when I'm writing, but I often do when I'm reworking, editing or when I need to relax.
I can write absolutely anywhere. All I need is a laptop.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: