Glen Cook

To me wine is just so much spoiled fruit juice.

Halfway up I met an old priest. He smiled and nodded benevolently, one of those guys who are what priests are supposed to be, and as a consequence, remain at the foot of the episcopal ladder throughout their lives.

“You’re a cynical and suspicious character, Garrett.”

“It’s people like you who make me that way.”

The only thing that comes easy is trouble.

There is no way to get your health back. You live on memories of what was and fantasies about what might have been. Both can be deadly to the man who loses sight of the demarcation between them and reality.

But somewhere along the way he had made up his mind and set it in concrete. Changed circumstances would not budge him.

Slick, Garrett. Remind me not to get on your wrong side. You’re so slick you’d slide uphill.

And I love what money does to you humans. It’s the only thing that saves you from being totally tedious.

Morning is wonderful. Its only drawback is that it comes at such an inconvenient time of day.

I jumped up, seized the moment by the scruff of the neck and seat of the pants, and ran him out the door to the accompaniment of appropriate old-time remarks about seedy little army types who failed to acknowledge the natural superiority of their overlords, the Marines.

She made no effort to peel herself from me. I thought about pushing her away—sometime next week.