The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure

When I was twenty-six, my first novel, The Temple of Gold, was published by Alfred A. Knopf. (Which is now part of Random House which is now part of R.C.A. which is just part of what’s wrong with publishing in America today which is not part of this story.)

“Life is pain,” his mother said. “Anybody that says different is selling something.”

“Why do you wear a mask and hood?” Fezzik asked.

“I think everybody will in the near future” was the man in black’s reply. “They’re terribly comfortable.”

“Life is pain,” his mother said. “Anybody that says different is selling something.”

There was a certain comfort in knowing that no matter how bad things were, they couldn’t get worse.

Someone would have to keep his wits, and he had assumed automatically that since Fezzik had so few, he would find retaining them not all that difficult.

Vizzini had strict instructions for occasions such as this, when a plan went wrong: Go back to the beginning.

“You are wonderful, Father.” “I’m more wonderful than wonderful, how dare you insult me.”

I loved that. Publishers having to spend money.

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.