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The old man laid a withered, spotted hand on his shoulder. It hurts, boy, he said softly. Oh, yes. Choosing . . . it has always hurt. And always will. I know.

George R. R. Martin

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George R. R. Martin
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: September 20
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Film Producer
Novelist
Playwright
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Science Fiction Writer
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Bayonne
New Jersey
George Raymond Richard Martin
GRRM
George R.R. Martin
George Raymond Martin
Men
Hurts
Laid
Shoulders
Boys
Spotted
Hurt
Withered
Hand
Softly
Hands
Shoulder
Always
Choosing

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I can see a scene in my head, and when I try to get it down in words on paper, the words are clunky the scene is not coming across right. So frustrating. And there are days where it keeps flowing. Open the floodgates, and there it is. Pages and pages coming. Where the hell does this all come from? I don't know.
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a man who hates music can’t be trusted, I always say.
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Power resides where men believe it to reside.
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In the game of thrones, even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own. Sometimes they refuse to make the moves you've planned for them.
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Black moleskin gloves covered his hands the right because it was burned, the left because a man felt half a fool wearing only one glove.
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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.
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Why ask for truth, Ser Barristan said softly, if you close your ears to it?
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One of the big breakthroughs, I think for me, was reading Robert A. Heinlein's four rules of writing, one of which was, 'You must finish what you write.' I never had any problem with the first one, 'You must write' - I was writing since I was a kid. But I never finished what writing.
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She went to the window seat and sat there, sniffling, hating them all, and herself most of all. It was all her fault, everything bad that had happened.
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I never wanted to see half the things I've seen, and I've never seen half the things I wanted to. I don't think wanting comes into it. You'd best go all the same.
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A mad man sees what he sees.
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Spikes, he sighed. Heads. Walls.
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Those are brave men, he told Ser Balon in admiration. Let's go kill them.
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Chaos isn’t a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but they refuse. They cling to the realm, or the gods, or love. Illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is.
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Contempt, thought Tyrion, the universal tongue.
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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.
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The girl had hoped for fog, but the gods ignored her prayers as gods so often did.
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Men will always underestimate you, he said, and their pride will make them want to vanquish you quickly, lest it be said that a woman tried them sorely. Let them spend their strength in furious attacks, whilst you conserve your own. Wait and watch, girl, wait and watch.
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Bran thought about it. 'Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?' 'That is the only time a man can be brave,' his father told him.
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She had killed him with a whisper, and she would kill two more before she was through. I’m the ghost in Harrenhal, she thought. And that night, there was one less name to hate.
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