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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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Confusing the author and the character seems to be a popular and rather unsophisticated reaction to books.
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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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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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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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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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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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If you must run, have something to run toward, so it feels less like cowardice.
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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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something in me had got broken, but not so broken I didn't remember what it was.
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No half measures. Some things can’t be cut in half. You can’t half-love someone. You can’t half-betray, or half-lie.
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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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Do you know why the leaves change colour?... Before a tree sheds a leaf it pumps it full of all the poison it can't rid itself of otherwise. That red there--that's a man's skin blotching with burst veins after an assassin spikes his last meal with roto-weed. The poison spreading through him before he dies.
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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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Anything that you cannot sacrifice pins you. Makes you predictable, makes you weak.
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It was a defeat, resorting to crude threats in a game of subtlety, but sometimes one must sacrifice a battle to win the war.
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Take a rest and the world catches up with you. Lesson in life--keep moving.
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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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I maintain a balanced view of the world, but that balance is always in my favour.
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