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No. Not yet. A craftsman only. But I dream to be an artist. I pray that someday, if I work with enough care, if I am very very lucky, I will make a weapon that is a work of art. Call me an artist then, and I will answer.

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
Answer
Work
Lucky
Make
Answers
Craftsman
Call
Weapon
Artist
Someday
Art
Pray
Dream
Praying
Care
Weapons

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You could concentrate much more deeply when you were alone with agony.
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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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When was the last time you read a book? The truth now. And picture books don't count-I mean something with print in it.
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Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.
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Never get involved in a land war in Asia.
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One way an author dies a little each day is when his books go out of print.
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When I was your age, television was called books.
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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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He had risked his life and now it was walking away from him, hand-in-hand with a Ruffian prince.
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Enough about my beauty, Buttercup said. Everybody always talks about how beautiful I am. I've got a mind, Westley. Talk about that.
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Let's look on the bright side: we're having an adventure, Fezzik, and most people live and die without being as lucky as we are.
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I understand everything,” he said. “You understand nothing, but it really doesn’t matter, since what you mean is, you’re glad to see me, just as I’m glad to see you because no more loneliness.” “That’s what I mean,” said Fezzik.
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For you see each day I love you more today more than yesterday and less than tomorrow. Just because you're beautiful and perfect, it's made you conceited.
William Goldman
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Now what happens? asked the man in black. We face each other as God intended, Fezzik said. No tricks, no weapons, skill against skill alone. You mean you'll put down your rock and I'll put down my sword and we'll try to kill each other like civilized people, is that it?
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There is no room in my body for anything but you.
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The easiest thing to do on earth is not write…But this is life on earth, you can't have everything.
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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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Let me get this thing straight, Inigo--we had SCRAPS for dinner? I'M in YOUR fantasy and the best you can come up with is SCRAPS? She turned toward the door then. You have no chance of winning my heart.
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The Countess was considerably younger than her husband. All of her clothes came from Paris (this was after Paris) and she had superb taste. (This was after taste too, but only just. And since it was such a new thing, and since the Countess was the only lady in all Florin to posses it, is it any wonder she was the leading hostess in the land?)
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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.
William Goldman