Quote

Enough about my beauty, Buttercup said. Everybody always talks about how beautiful I am. I've got a mind, Westley. Talk about that.

William Goldman

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William Goldman
Age: 87 †
Born: 1931
Born: August 12
Died: 2018
Died: November 16
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
Highland Park
Illinois
S. Morgenstern
Harry Longbaugh
Enough
Mind
Always
Buttercup
Talks
Everybody
Beauty
Talk
Beautiful

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Dummy, dummy, go out now and fill your tummy.
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Love is many things none of them logical.
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I love you,” Buttercup said. “I know this must come as something of a surprise, since all I’ve ever done is scorn you and degrade you and taunt you, but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second, more.
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I know something you do not know. I am not left-handed either.
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Buttercup's mother whirled on him. 'Did you forget to pay your taxes?' (This was after taxes. But everything is after taxes. Taxes were here even before stew.)
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I am your Prince and you will marry me, Humperdinck said. Buttercup whispered, I am your servant and I refuse. I am you Prince and you cannot refuse. I am your loyal servant and I just did. Refusal means death. Kill me then.
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Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high.
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Life is difficult. Anyone who says different is trying to sell you something.
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I seemed busy, busy, busy, but I suppose, if pressed, I might have admitted that, for all my frenzy, I was very much alone.
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And that's when she put her book down. And looked at me. And said it: Life isn't fair, Bill. we tell our children that it is, but it's a terrible thing to do. It's not only a lie, it's a cruel lie. Life is not fair, and it never has been, and it's never going to be.
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I'm not witch. I'm your wife.
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People don't remember me. Really. It's not a paranoid thing I just have this habit of slipping through memories. It doesn't bother me all that much, except I guess that's a lie it does. For some reason, I test very high on forgettability.
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We’ll never survive!” “Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.
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While he was watching the ships, Buttercup shoved him with all her strength remaining. [...] Down went the man in black. [...] You can die too for all I care, she said, and then she turned away. Words followed her. Whispered from far, weak and warm and familiar. As...you...wish...
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Cynics are simply thwarted romantics.
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I could give you my word as a Spaniard, Inigo said. No good, the man in black replied. I've known too many Spaniards.
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The boys. The village boys. The beef-witted featherbrained rattleskulled clodpated dimdomed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed boys. How could anybody accuse her of stealing them? Why would anybody want them anyway?
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And what have I done? What? WHAT?...You've stolen them. With that, Cornelia fled, but Buttercup understood she knew who them was. The boys. The beef-witted featherbrained rattledskulled clodpated dim-domed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed BOYS.
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It’s an accepted fact that all writers are crazy, even the normal ones are weird.
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