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It would require a singularly stupid man to go hang around in narrow tunnels and cramped spaces alongside a threat like that. And I, Harry Dresden, am that man, I stated.

Jim Butcher

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Jim Butcher
Age: 53
Born: 1971
Born: October 26
Actor
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Independence
Missouri
Threat
Alongside
Stupid
Stated
Space
Tunnels
Around
Spaces
Would
Harry
Men
Narrow
Singularly
Like
Require
Cramped
Hang
Dresden

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You killed my dog! Get your affairs in order.
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There’s nothing that makes you more insane than family. Or more happy. Or more exasperated. Or more . . . secure.
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Knowledge is the ultimate weapon. It always has been.
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Caring about someone isn't complicated. It isn't easy. But it isn't complicated, either. Kinda like lifting the engine block out of a car.
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Because nothing says flattery like a gun to the head.
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All right. Tell me what I'm looking at. From the improvised Rolling Stones T-shirt bag tied to my sash, Bob the Skull said, in his most caustic voice, A giant pair of cartoon lips. I muttered a curse and fumbled with the shirt until one of the skull's glowing orange eye sockets was visible. A big goofy magic nerd! Bob said.
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Billy squinted at me. Why are you letting them go? Because they're real. How do you know? The one I was holding crapped on my hand.
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Sometimes I think that's where most of us are. Fighting off the crazy as best we can. Trying to become something better than we were. It's that second bit that's important.
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I checked my gear, my pockets, my shoelaces, and realized that I had crossed the line between making sure I was ready and trying to postpone the inevitable.
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Better safe than exsanguinated.
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The building was on fire, and it wasn’t my fault.
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The characters within a book were, from a certain point of view, identical on some fundamental level ‒ there weren't any images of them, no physical tangibility whatsoever. They were pictures in the reader's head, constructs of imagination and ideas, given shape by the writer's work and skill and the reader's imagination. Parents, of a sort.
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Everyone is down on pain, because they forget something important about it: Pain is for the living. Only the dead don't feel it.
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It's not my fault all women like motorcycles, Murph. They're basically huge vibrators. With wheels.
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Love is another kind of power, which shouldn't surprise you. Magic comes from emotions, among other things.
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There should be a rule against your own inner monologue throwing around that much sarcasm.
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So? Bob said. Hat up, go kill her. Problem solved. Bob, I said. You can't just go around killing people. I know. That's why you should do it. No, no. I can't go around killing people, either.
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Man. Being mostly dead is hard on a guy.
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Life is too short, Harry. And there's nowhere near enough joy in it. If you find it, grab it. Before it's gone.
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Time after time, history demonstrates that when people don't want to believe something, they have enormous skills of ignoring it altogether.
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