Then you start another book and suddenly the galley proofs of the last one come in and you have to wrench your attention away from what you’re writing and try to remember what you were thinking when you wrote the previous one.
BERNARD CORNWELLI do understand that you can look into someone’s eyes,” I heard myself saying, “and suddenly know that life will be impossible without them.
More Bernard Cornwell Quotes
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Even the nailed god cannot change that truth. And I was a warrior, and in a world at war the warrior must be cruel.
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The only mercy of children is that they grow up, as my son has but then, tragically, they beget more children. We do not learn life’s lessons.
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You won’t regret the men you never killed, but you will regret the women you passed up.
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The existence of tricks does not imply the absence of magic.
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Know that their voice can make your heart miss a beat and that their company is all your happiness can ever desire and that their absence will leave your soul alone, bereft and lost.
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A man does not see where he treads in battle, for he is watching the enemy.
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Because there could not be peace, not while two tribes shared one land. One tribe must win.
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We make children and wealth and amass land and build halls and assemble armies and give great feasts, but only one thing survives us. Reputation.
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Writing is a solitary occupation.
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We don’t build,’ I said to my son, ‘we just destroy.
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I know nothing about producing TV drama and any involvement on my part is liable to prove an obstacle to the producers, so I prefer to be a cheerleader and let them get on with it.
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Love is a dangerous thing. It comes in disguise to change our life… Lust is the deceiver. Lust wrenches our lives until nothing matters except the one we think we love, and under that deceptive spell we kill for them, give all for them, and then, when we have what we have wanted.
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Pride makes a man, it drives him, it is the shield wall around his reputation… Men die, they said, but reputation does not die.
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This is our land, mixed with our blood, strengthened with our bone. Ours!
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The bards sing of love, they celebrate slaughter, they extol kings and flatter queens, but were I a poet I would write in praise of friendship.
BERNARD CORNWELL