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Then again, Solomon was human. And that meant he was flawed (Go on, take a look at yourself in the mirror. A good long look, if you can bear it. See? Flawed's putting it mildly, isn't it?)

Jonathan Stroud

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Jonathan Stroud
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: October 27
Novelist
Writer
Jonathan Anthony Stroud
Look
Solomon
Human
Flawed
Humans
Mirror
Looks
Mirrors
Take
Bear
Long
Putting
Good
Meant
Bears
Mildly

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So I departed, leaving behind a pungent smell of brimstone. Just something to remember me by.
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When I write something that would have made me laugh as a 10-year-old, or would have scared me or would have excited me, I know I'm onto something.
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Fiftey years isn't too bad. With luck you might see it happen when your a sweet,old granny,dandling big fat babies on your knee. Actully-he held up a hand,interrupting Kitty's cry of protest-no,that's wrong. My projection is incorrect. Good. You'll never be a sweet old granny. Let's say,'sad,lonely old biddy' instead.
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Her clarity gave her purpose and her purpose gave her clarity.
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Besides, if you're going to die horribly, you might as well do it with style.
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Haven't you done enough for a lifetime? Think about it - two power - crazed magicians killed, a hundred power - crazed magicians saved.
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I read a bit of the Icelandic sagas. They're fascinating in that they are completely ordinary. The farmer will go off into the hills and fight a troll, and then go back and do ordinary things. It's an odd mix of fantasy and reality.
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That's usually how they start, the young ones. Meaningless waffle.
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The mercenary finished his coffee in a single gulp, It must have been piping hot, too. Boy, he was tough.
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I warn you, the boy went on. I am a magician of great power. I control many terrifying entities. This being you see before you - here I rolled my shoulders back and puffed my chest up menacingly - is but the meanest and least impressive of my slaves. Here I slumped my shoulders and stuck my stomach out.
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He was transfixed at the sight of the lords and ladies of his realm running about like demented chickens.
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When I was young, I kept a diary for about 10 years and I had to write in it every day. Even on days when nothing seemed to happen, I made myself think of something to put in it.
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If anyone else asked that question, O He Who Is Terrible and Great, I would have said they were an ignorant fool in you it is a sign of the disarming simplicity which is the fount of all virtue.
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According to some, heroic deaths are admirable things. I've never been convinced by this argument, mainly because, no matter how cool, stylish, composed, unflappable, manly, or defiant you are, at the end of the day you're also dead. Which is a little too permanent for my liking.
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We communicated with pithy, rather monosyllabic thoughts: viz. Run, Jump, Where? Left, Up, Duck, ect. (This latter was an observation I made on the edge of a lake. Nathaniel unfortunately took it as a command, which resulted in our temporary immersion.) We didn't ever quite say Ug, but it was a close-run thing.
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Julius Tallow was a fool. He appeared complacent, but like a weak swimmer out of his depth, his legs were kicking frantically under the surface, trying to keep him afloat. Whatever happened, Nathaniel did not intend to sink with him.
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