William Goldman

You had to admire a guy who called his own new book a classic before it was published and anyone else had a chance to read it.

Love is many things, none of them logical.

Just because you're beautiful and perfect, it's made you conceited.

It must have been fifty seconds before Doc died.Long time.

Cynics are simply thwarted romantics.

This book says 'life isn't fair' and I'm telling you, one and all, you betterbelieve it. I got a fat spoiled son_e's not gonna nab Miss Rheingold. And he's always gonna be fat, evenif he gets skinny he'll still be fat and he'll still be spoiled and life will never be enough to make himhappy, and that's my fault maybe_ake it all my fault, if you want_he point is, we're not created equal,for the rich they sing, life isn't fair. I got a cold wife; she's brilliant, she's stimulating, she's terrific; there'sno love; that's okay too, just so long as we don't keep expecting everything to somehow even out for usbefore we die.

Give the reader what they want, just not the way they expect it.

I've been in the revenge buisness for so long, now that it's over I don't know what to do with the rest of my life.

My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!

That's all you need? Easy. I love you.Okay? Want it louder?I love you. Spell it out schould I l-o-v-e y-o-u. Want it backwards You love I.

Who can know when his world is going to change? Who can tell before it happens, that every priorexperience, all the years, were a preparation for . . . nothing.

I must be overtired', Buttercup managed. 'The excitement and all.''Rest then', her mother cautioned. 'Terrible things can happen when you're overtired. I was overtired the night your father proposed.

Who says life is fair, where is that written?

[Prince Humperdinck] was seventy-five minutes away from his first female murder, and he wondered if he could get his fingers to her throat before even the start of a scream. He had been practicing on giant sausages all the afternoon and had the movements down pretty pat, but then, giant sausages weren__ necks and all the wishing in the world wouldn__ make them so.

It's my letter," she began. "I cannot make it right.""Come in, come in," the Prince said gently. "Maybe we can help you." She sat down in the same chair as before. "All right, I'll close my eyes and listen; read to me."" 'Westley, my passion, my sweet, my only, my own. Come back, come back. I shall kill myself otherwise. Yours in torment, Buttercup.' " She looked at Humperdinck. "Well? Do you think I'm throwing myself at him?""It does seem a bit forward," the Prince admitted. "It doesn't leave him a great deal of room to maneuver.

The tears that kept Buttercup company the remainder of the day were not at all like those that had blinded her into the tree trunk. Those were noisy and hot; they pulsed. These were silent and steady and all they did was remind her that she wasn__ good enough. She was seventeen, and every male she__ ever known had crumbled at her feet and it meant nothing. The one time it really mattered, she wasn__ good enough.

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.

I mean, I really do think that love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops. But I also have to say, for the umpty-umpth time, that life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all.