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The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.
IT WAS ONE OF those perfect autumn days so common in stories and so rare in the real world.
Have you ever been annoyed and amused with yourself at the same time? It’s an interesting feeling, to say the very least.
More times than I like to admit.
A poet is a musician who can’t sing. Words have to find a man’s mind before they can touch his heart, and some men’s minds are woeful small targets. Music touches their hearts directly no matter how small or stubborn the mind of the man who listens.”
If you can find someone like that, someone who you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you’re lucky. Even if it only lasts for a minute or a day.
The saying “time heals all wounds” is false. Time heals most wounds.
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There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity.
Needless to say, playing these things hurt, but it was a hurt like tender fingers on lute strings. I bled a bit and hoped that I would callous soon.
“But we are all creatures of habit. It is far too easy to stay in the familiar ruts we dig for ourselves.
Fear tends to come from ignorance. Once I knew what the problem was, it was just a problem, nothing to fear.
Why? Because pride is a strange thing, and because generosity deserves generosity in return. But mostly because it felt like the right thing to do, and that is reason enough.
No matter where you are, people are basically the same.
That’s why stories appeal to us. They give us the clarity and simplicity our real lives lack.”
“There are two sure ways to lose a friend, one is to borrow, the other to lend.”
Stanchion’s hair was a deep, bashful red that hid if the light struck him the wrong way.
“Beer dulls a memory, brand sets it burning, but wine is the best for a sore heart’s yearning.”
“It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”
