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I wanted to go home and if Hell rose up to stop me, it would make me desire it more.

Mark Lawrence

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Mark Lawrence
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: January 28
Author
Novelist
the United States of America
Would
Rose
Hell
Stop
Desire
Home
Wanted
Make

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If you must run, have something to run toward, so it feels less like cowardice.
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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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Dark times call for dark choices. Choose me.
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She'll never love you better than she loves her own children.
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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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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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It is purity of spirit that will keep corruption from the flesh
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Let's go to Valhalla with the sun on our faces.
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In the end it seems we're just toys,easy to break and hard to mend
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When you take a woman away from her man, what you get is a woman who can be taken away from her man.
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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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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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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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Four years and everything was the same, except me.
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I maintain a balanced view of the world, but that balance is always in my favour.
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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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You're a Good Little Slave
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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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I may be running out of options, but running out isn't an option.
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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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