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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.

Mark Lawrence

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Mark Lawrence
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: January 28
Author
Novelist
the United States of America
Littles
Madness
Cocoon
Little
Build
Shrouds
Time
Wind
Cocoons
Single
Heavier
Memories
Weave
Bits
Weigh
Grows
Thread
Around
Drag
Shroud

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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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When you're in a dark place, and your light is going to run out before too long, you get on with things. It's a wonder to me how few people apply that same logic to their lives.
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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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Humanity can be divided into madmen and cowards. My personal tragedy is in being born into a world where sanity is held to be a character flaw.
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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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You soon learn there’s no elegance or dignity in death if you spend time in the castle kitchens. You learn how ugly it is, and how good it tastes.
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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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Four years and everything was the same, except me.
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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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We can't be trapped by fear. Lives lived within such walls are just slower deaths.
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There’s something brittle in me that will break before it bends.
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I may be running out of options, but running out isn't an option.
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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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Anything that you cannot sacrifice pins you. Makes you predictable, makes you weak.
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If you must run, have something to run toward, so it feels less like cowardice.
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Dark times call for dark choices. Choose me.
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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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Questions for questions. You're a man who's spent time at court.
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