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You're a Good Little Slave

Mark Lawrence

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Mark Lawrence
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: January 28
Author
Novelist
the United States of America
Littles
Little
Good
Slave
Hate

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If the sins of the flesh ever got old I didn't ever want enough years on me to know it.
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Confusing the author and the character seems to be a popular and rather unsophisticated reaction to books.
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We can't be trapped by fear. Lives lived within such walls are just slower deaths.
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Some truths should perhaps be left unsaid. Some doors unopened. An angel once told me to let go of the ills I held too close, to let go of the flaws that shaped me.
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Hold to a thing long enough, a secret, a desire, maybe a lie, and it will shape you.
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And when pain bites, men bargain. Boys too. We twist and turn, we plead and beg, we offer our tormentors what he wants so that the hurting will stop. And when there is no torturer to placate, no hooded man with hot irons and tongs, just a burn you can't escape, we bargain with God, or ourselves, depending on the size of our egos.
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Take a rest and the world catches up with you. Lesson in life--keep moving.
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I've always felt that the placement of a man's testicles is an eloquent argument against intelligent design.
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Questions for questions. You're a man who's spent time at court.
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I wanted to go home and if Hell rose up to stop me, it would make me desire it more.
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I’ll tell you now. That silence almost beat me. It’s the silence that scares me. It’s the blank page on which I can write my own fears. The spirits of the dead have nothing on it. The dead one tried to show me hell, but it was a pale imitation of the horror I can paint on the darkness in a quiet moment.
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I may be running out of options, but running out isn't an option.
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I maintain a balanced view of the world, but that balance is always in my favour.
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Each day the memories weigh a little heavier. Each day they drag you down that bit further. You wind them around you, a single thread at a time, and you weave your own shroud, you build a cocoon, and in it madness grows.
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All lives are tales. Some spread, and grow in the telling. Others are just told between us and the gods, muttered back and forth behind our days, but those tales grow too and shake us just as fierce.
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Let's go to Valhalla with the sun on our faces.
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A strange thing — nails will hold a building together, but there's nothing better for taking a man apart.
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I think maybe we die every day. Maybe we're born new each dawn, a little changed, a little further on our own road. When enough days stand between you and the person you were, you're strangers. Maybe that's what growing up is. Maybe I have grown up.
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For the longest time I studied revenge to the exclusion of all else. I built my first torture chamber in the dark vaults of imagination. Lying on bloody sheets in the Healing Hall I discovered doors within my mind that I'd not found before, doors that even a child of nine knows should not be opened. Doors that never close again. I threw them wide.
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A fool may scrawl on a slate and if no one has the wit to wipe it clean for a thousand years, the scrawl becomes the wisdom of ages.
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